


Free from the Dungeons Three

by ElenoftheWays



Series: Re-Synchronizing Pines Twin Powers [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: #AsMabelWouldSayPff, A Stan-Hug Fic but I hope it physiologically FEELS like a Stan-hug for you, Abusive Filbrick Pines, Canon Compliant, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Fluff with Cerebral Comfort, Fluff with emotional weight, Ford has PTSD, Gen, Introspection, It's not angst just character-building, Just two crochety old men relating their traumas, Movie Reference, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s02e13 Dungeons Dungeons and More Dungeons, Pre-Episode: s02e14 The Stanchurian Candidate, Stan Pines is a Good Brother, Stan and Ford finally reading the same paragraph but different sentences, Stanford Pines trying to be a good older brother while feeling oldest sibling responsibility, Stanford “Trust Issues” Pines, Stanford “What is Sleep?” Pines, Stanley is as cute as a Eucalyptus tree, Stanley’s elephant is my personal patronus, TV Show References, Tackling real life in lucid dreaming or tackling lucid dreaming in real life?, The Night They Cried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenoftheWays/pseuds/ElenoftheWays
Summary: Call him crazy or maybe the air has felt a little clearer since that late afternoon adventure with Stanley and the Cubitum Serpentibus just two days ago. Despite the pseudo-silent treatment or the occasional side-eye or just the straight-up ignoring each other, somehow it was a little easier to breathe around him if they weren’t actually screaming at each other or being threatened by a maniacal Probabilitor.Perhaps it really was just him![...]His eyes sank shut to an even darker blackness than the apparent early morning hour, something leaping somewhere in his peripheral nervous system just from the reminder of a solid black place behind his eyelids. Dealing with the past 40 years was much easier yesterday. How could anyone hold a family member accountable for an unforgiving dangerous decision and yet thank them for saving their lives without getting emotional after today?!
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Re-Synchronizing Pines Twin Powers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818082
Kudos: 7





	Free from the Dungeons Three

“Hiya, Fordsie!” 

A solid black surrounded him in all directions. It was too much like the minutes after Bill Cipher stripped his dreams from his mindscape as if peeling wallpaper right off a wall, leaving Stanford stranded in the middle of a large black expanse still vibrating from a nightmare made even worse. Cipher would be making his appearance soon enough and posing like any friend or family member with all kinds of malicious threats in manipulating him into revealing the formula, but that dream demon was nowhere to be seen now, his bright disembodied voice everywhere and nowhere in this bottomless pit-like dark. 

Ford had to come back to his senses, Ford _had_ to come back to his senses! 

Where was he exactly? 

Maybe remembering himself in the current time in 46’\ would help. 

Yes, he _is_ in his home dimension now. How was that so easy to forget in a moment of panic? 

At least there was no sign that Cipher was even in his dimension, and he, Stanford Pines, _would_ ensure it to stay that way too! All precautions have already been apprehended, the rift now safe and secure in something likened to a snow globe there … here. Even the gateway’s dismantled metal scraps were strewn around the test area in chaotically organized piles waiting to be dumped in the bottomless pit or recycled to some less dangerous capacity! Maybe he was just sleeping! 

He _had_ to be sleeping! 

Ford tried blinking his eyes open, but they already were and the blackness seemed like it stretched for what looked like miles. 

“Hey, you, Six Fingers!” 

He leaped back around, that yellow triangle still nowhere to be seen. 

Oh no, this was bad, _this_ was bad. 

Ford _had_ to have been dreaming! 

Stanford always dreamed throughout his life that he had five fingers like everyone else. He lifted a hand up in the air like he was offering proof to himself. The faint outline of all six shook with fear right back at him. But the air was solid around his polydactyly, and no wind or heat was moving against them. They shook even harder, Ford having even less of a distinction of where he was. Was he in the _actual_ bottomless pit?! Did Cipher put him there?! Where was he?! 

An old instinct to yell for Stanley shouted from his bones. 

The rest of his arm started shaking just as hard as his hand, Cipher’s echo dying down to a faint buzz in the back of his ears. 

But how did Cipher get out? 

Of course, he knew _how_ Cipher got out! 

“You know, Weirdist —” 

Ford almost jumped out of his skin as he leaped back around in another indiscriminate direction, groping blindly for the gun at his hip. But there still was nothing to be seen, but a thick cave-like dark for miles. 

And where was his gun? 

He reached for one of his trench coat pockets for a flashlight or really anything to test the depth of field of this place. 

“— I _could_ always rewind time back to earlier and make your brother roll a 37. Poof! Problem solved, at least for you, but unfortunately, not for me. I think _I_ might keep you around.” 

He held his breath. 

“Around...” 

Cipher knew _that_. Cipher actually knew about earlier! 

“Around...” 

_Of_ _course_ , Cipher knew about earlier! 

But he gripped at nothing but the air above his turtleneck, frantically reaching down at a holster he knew wasn’t even there. When _did_ he take off his coat and gun?! He could feel his heart pounding almost straight out of his chest and sweat dripping off of his forehead as that awful high-pitched echo faded into this darkness all over again. 

“You have what I need, Sixer” whispered directly into one ear. 

Both hands clapped over the both of them. 

No. 

Stop it. 

Stanford Pines, you are 57 years old, so start acting like it! 

How was it so easy to forget that his mind was impenetrable thanks to the Oracle in Dimension 52? That natural oceanic sound hollowed from his palms up into each auditory canal, Ford feeling absolutely ridiculous over all of this. Besides, that dream demon needed his precious deals in order to get into other people’s minds and Stanford knew better now! But the arm hair around his unfortunate tattoos prickled even taller and sharper, gradual dark shapes taking form on either side of him without a single bright yellow triangle in sight at least for now. 

For now … 

He opened his eyes onto an eerie but familiar blue light glowing onto the drab-stained carpet around his left boot. His hands came down from his ears as Stanford looked back up discovering that one stone wall and the darker surrounding plaid wallpaper. The room looked vaguely familiar. But a thick dreaminess instead of that solid black matter swam around him as his hands came back to his sides, Ford looking straight ahead at a large door beyond two small steps that led down into this room. The universe behind the diamond-shaped window inside of it looked like night significantly past 9 PM. A dinosaur skull and a chair beside it started slowly taking shape on his left and a powered down television on his right, and if Stanford knew any better, this almost looked like the main floor of his old shack! 

Was he in a dimension not too different from the one he knew … again?! Was Cipher behind this refashioning of his own top floor laboratory?! 

For now … 

He didn’t even realize his polydactyly was already clenching into fists _and_ in that stupid old boxing stance. Stanford took a deep breath ready to take on whatever this was and the intake smelled like … 

… spaghetti? 

He shook his head so fast, he ended up even woozier. 

A dream demon couldn’t have fashioned _that_ kind of sensory experience! 

But this wasn’t his top floor laboratory anymore but Stanley’s living room; Stanford officially knew where _and_ when he was. 

It had been a considerable number of hours since finding a kindred nerdy spirit in Dipper, believing today being one of those reprieve kinds of days to play Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. After all, it seemed only proper after finishing relocating the interdimensional rift around 6 AM, Stanford actually entrusting its move to a quite intelligent 12-year-old boy much later in the day! But it also had been a considerable number of hours since Stanley accidentally rolled the infinity-sided die and ending up saving Dipper and himself from the psychotic Probabilitor. 

Stanley … 

All of that defeat attached to that name sank back down around Stanford’s own personal cocoon and genially warming up his trench coat-free shoulders. 

But Stanford couldn’t remember how he got up here though. He did remember reclining in Stanley’s much nicer desk chair for these past 30 years and staring into the test area at that hectic mess of his. “Look down at the bottom bunk, talk to Stan. Look down at the bottom bunk, talk to Stan” almost immediately started its nightly routine of taunting him into an almost-sleep and then before he knew it, he was up here. But Ford had never been much of a somnambulist nor did he really feel like he was just dreaming. 

He exhaled, almost tasting the garlic on his tongue. 

Stanford’s stomach rumbled at the memory of spaghetti, but his whole body knew it was still too soon. Even after the Cubitum Serpentibus two days ago, he still hadn’t actually told Stanley about what it would take for him to return to real food and possibly consume any of his brother’s cooking. Ford never ate that much anyway, even before falling into the trans-universal gateway. But at least there's always coffee. Eating always did take too much time out of a usually productive day, but if an organic 6-hour sleep _was_ starting to sound even more tempting, then … 

Wait a second. 

His … brother’s … cooking. 

Stanford couldn’t help but smirk as he crossed his arms over the texture of his uncovered turtleneck. He never expected putting _those_ three words together in his mind, Stanley’s cooking possibly a phenomenon unto itself although it couldn’t have been very edible! 

He closed his eyes still frozen in the middle of the living room, a hard yank tugging at his grumbling stomach with that shapeless dark in front of him with a little hint of that blue aquarium light. His coat-less shoulders warmed up with even more disappointment after everything that had transpired in a more graph paper-filled version of this room earlier today. 

A deep and defeated sigh fell out into all of that thickness. 

But perhaps he was dreaming on his own without Cipher’s influence. He gradually formed a fist at his side, and there was the faint memory of punching his own brother manifesting in all of that darkness. There is no way to be sure of anything right now, this almost being the cost of spending over 30 years distrusting everyone and everything. But he couldn’t have dreamed the smell of spaghetti on his own after all of this time! This dream _must_ have been influenced by someone else! 

The only way to remedy this was to stay completely aware of himself and perhaps become even more inside his body. It had been difficult to do since coming back and feeling his body detach from his mind and mutis mutandis every so often, Stanford now understanding what Fiddleford’s madness must feel like somewhat. But if he could focus on his body and propel it into the kitchen for a glass of water, he could somehow take control of his own dream! 

Ford leaned his weight into the ball of his left foot, the right kicking ahead towards the two steps it took to get into the kitchen. One pressure wave after another charged through every artery and up into the remainders of his brain as he went up both of them and around the corner. But the air in the kitchen was just as thick as it was in the living room, its heaviness sharp under an almost-influence of lucid dreaming. Stanford’s shoulders vibrated even harder with that nagging feeling he still couldn’t get rid of for the past two (or five) days. 

Lucid dreaming, he remembered hearing about that once … 

“After quite a few trips to other dimensions,” the Oracle’s peaceful voice hummed before they parted ways, “the sentient plate _will_ start to slowly stimulate threb-smeb [or lucid dreams according to Ford’s roommate] before it calms back down to a pure state of mackle [or what the Buddhists here in 46’\ call Zen].” 

He lifted the faucet handle. 

Stanford honestly wouldn’t even know what mackle would feel like! 

He filled the only available clean glass with a quiet stream of water and, of course, he would be drinking out of a Mystery Shack mug! How ironic. But Ford inclined it enough for a single drop to trickle into his mouth, the over-vigilance of any and all chemicals infiltrating his body feeling just a little ridiculous at least in _this_ dimension. Stanford paused like he did every other time in these past five days reminding himself, this possibly another feat of what it means to come back through the gateway. It _would_ be more accessible solid dimension-appropriate sustenance if he so wished after some time, but coffee on the other hand … 

The single drip of water landed cool on his tongue. 

But was there any way to find out if his dream was influenced? It couldn’t have been Cipher, maybe it was something else or one of the many odd forest creatures if they were at all capable! 

Stanford’s hand shook as he held the mug handle and taking a deeper sip. The more he drank, the more the heat over his turtleneck slowly subsided. But the corner of one eye caught something rectangular and colorful laying on the counter, the tail end of that sip almost going down the wrong tube once Ford realized what it was. He felt himself dreamily gravitate towards a package he hadn’t seen in so long. 

A bag of off-brand jelly beans and a bright yellow Post-it stared right back up at him. Of _all_ the snacks to lure him out of this hyper-diligence! 

“Prolly not az defformned az u’d liike, but doez thiz c0unt for peell food? - S” 

Stanley remembered his favorite snack after all of this time?! 

He pinched his lips together, each of their ends arching right up and almost knocking his glasses right off his face. Stanford shook his head in total disbelief as he looked back up. Perhaps this was a dream and perhaps one contrived all on his own! Not many people receive handwritten notes from Stan like this! But Ford looked back down at an even blurrier image of Stan’s large and clumsy penmanship. It really hadn’t changed after 40 years, and all of that numerical weight came hurtling down onto his cooled off shoulders. Dream or no dream, Stanford really didn’t deserve this. 

Call him crazy or maybe the air has felt a little clearer since that late afternoon adventure with Stanley and the Cubitum Serpentibus just two days ago. Despite the pseudo-silent treatment or the occasional side-eye or just the straight-up ignoring each other, somehow it was a little easier to breathe around him if they weren’t actually screaming at each other or being threatened by a maniacal Probabilitor. 

Perhaps it really was just him! 

But maybe it was better and perhaps even safer never knowing Stanley’s perspective. Despite Stanley’s more than justified anger, it was as if Stanford’s monozygous traits of sensing feelings in his younger twin slowly became even more activated. The yelling, however needed was getting even more exhausting and the obvious avoiding one another just plain petulant made worse either by older age or inactive brain chemicals. It _did_ seem Ford was sleeping even longer than just power naps after these minor scuffles, and he _knew_ he hated that! 

His eyes sank shut to an even darker blackness than the apparent early morning hour, something leaping somewhere in his peripheral nervous system just from the reminder of a solid black place behind his eyelids. Dealing with the past 40 years _was_ much easier yesterday. How could _anyone_ hold a family member accountable for an unforgiving dangerous decision and yet thank them for saving their lives without getting emotional after _to_ _day_?! Stanford knew he would get emotional and not angrily either. 

He opened his eyes back onto the dark wood counter made even darker by whatever time it was. The bright jelly beans and the Post-it was still right there, but it was getting difficult to ignore the half-filled sink of dirty dishes just off the corner of the other eye. This wasn’t even remotely surprising. Before Ford even realized it, he was pushing up his sleeves by only a little bit and turning the faucet onto a warmer lower pressure. 

It was rather remarkable doing this for a _positive_ incentive for once. 

Ma used to inflict punishment through house chores; himself and Stanley usually forced to do dishes for two weeks straight whenever they got into trouble. Of course, Stan was the one who frequently got into _that_ trouble, but Ford was always happy to help his little brother out when their parents weren’t looking! 

“It’s what big brothers are for, knucklehead!” 

“You’re only 15 minutes older than me, Poindexter!” 

“So?” 

“W-well,” but a 10-year-old Stanley clearly had nothing as he opened and closed his mouth multiple times. Stanford couldn’t help but chuckle a little even now. But the knucklehead ended up splashing a little dish water up onto his bandaged elbow, “W-well, _you’re_ supposed to be the big smartypants college man!” 

He remembered swearing right then and there that no matter how the college or treasure hunting panned out, his main priority was always to be the best older brother if by only 15 minutes. 

Ford really did fail his brother, didn’t he? This isn’t what older brothers are supposed to do! 

But the rotating wet dish rag against plate or glasses or utensils continued hypnagogic, his hands there but not there as they softly placed wet dishes on the dinosaur rib of a dish rack or the warm soapy water between all six fingers. He sighed a quiet sigh, watching the dirty dish water slowly go down a half-clogged drain. Hm, figures. 

“I’ll mock all I want, It's my TV room!” 

“It’s _my_ house, you …” Ford struggled so hard from sounding like a five-year-old in front of the kids and Mabel’s odd friend. 

He was officially so tired of fighting as of today. Even if the past was in the past and yet not going anywhere any time soon all at the same time, what was the point of consciously but not so- _un_ conscious ly picking at emotional scabs like this? Stan _was_ the one who accidentally rolled the Infinity-sided die! 

But Stan also ended up saving Dipper and himself! 

Like his dyslexic vocabulary, those inconsistencies were still the same and so was Ford’s being simultaneously angry, but also feeling like … well, like the warm water now slowly drying between his fingers! Stanley has never been an easy person to understand even as they grew older and the boundaries and adults gradually placing them in separate corners. Perhaps there was no hope for things to change unless something really horrible happened; but with the horrible always hovering over Gravity Falls after all he had done … 

… but Stanford couldn’t afford to go there in his mind at least right now. 

He hoped to make it up to everyone and even himself in committing to ensuring that Cipher wouldn’t touch this dimension and all the people in it these past five days … even if one of those people was that frustrating antithetical brother of his. 

Ford dropped his palms on either side of the sink, the dish water’s heat still lingering between his fingers. 

His head drooped. 

But he really did entrust Dipper with the relocation of the interdimensional rift, so … 

No, no. 

_That_ was stupid, absolutely implausible! 

But there had been a kind of gratification in letting Dipper know, he _is_ quite an intelligent kid and Ford had never felt _this_ good in being honest with someone, so perhaps … 

Stanford Pines, you’re a damned fool. 

He heard a tiny deflated sound groan right out of him as he almost sagged his chin right down into the half-drained sink. 

Was it incredibly ludicrous to want to tell Stanley that he missed him to his face? But at the same time, they hadn’t actually been “real” brothers since they were kids, so Ford would be admitting to missing the best little brother he once knew. Evolution only knew how well _that_ would go! 

The both of them had changed so much and yet Stanley is still so similar to the brother Stanford once knew. Stanley, now a professional con man and owner of an idiotic tourist trap and obsessed with money so much like Filbrick, seemed both like himself and yet not all at the same time. But Ford wasn't any better at being a coward on an interdimensional run and maybe even those experiences changed him from Stan’s perspective. Maybe verbal communication can only go so far! 

But Stanley _didn't_ walk away from the Cubitum Serpentibus Variation on Newton’s Prism Experiment test area two days ago. He could have if he wanted to at any point throughout the whole experience, well, except for the point when Stanford was sure he was quite possibly frozen to the spot staring at an aged snake now mitigated into glass. 

His being there could not have felt more like the Stanley he _did_ know, who was always right there silently keeping Stanford’s ego in check. Even if they didn’t talk much throughout the experience, save for Stan yelling at him over Mabel’s pig, his presence could not have felt any better and familiar. That was the Stanley whom anchored him, who never completely forced him out of his shell, but never let him retreat into it very far, who never blinked in defending him from the school bullies. A little of that Stanley was still there even if he didn’t know it! But then there were those last few minutes choking on those very words and then that poorly conceived exit … 

A drip of water that didn’t come from the faucet dropped into the basin. 

Ford resisted punching the counter and possibly waking up those strange and wonderful kids. 

Those strange and wonderful kids looked pretty wiped out as everyone walked back to the shack after the whole ordeal. Well, at least everyone except for Mabel, who rode on Stanley’s shoulders for part of the way back. Stanford struggled from looking as startled as he felt, looking up at Sherman’s granddaughter wrapping her arms around Filbrick’s old fez at the top of Stan’s head. Her eyes sank shut and soon her forehead was pressing down against the top of the tassel, its fringe swaying right in her face. Ford could almost see her smile a tiny, sleepy grin as she leaned against that smelly old antique. 

“Teehee, tickly little octopus legs,” Mabel sleepily murmured. 

Stanley looked so much like a kind of parental figure in carrying a child like this! It looked too good on him and he would smile a tiny grin up towards the little girl on his shoulders every so often. 

Stanford tried his best resisting the tears, but with great difficulty. He could do nothing but redirect his focus ahead for any incoming weird danger the forest could come up with this late in the day. But he already knew the answer before the question even popped up in a comic-like thought bubble over his head. Why didn’t Stan marry and settle down after all this time? 

But he knew. 

Ford knew and he _hated_ himself for it! 

“Alright, people!” Mabel announced once everyone gathered inside the backdoor foyer, looking even more rested and alert as she grinned up at her summer guardian, “Grunkle Stan, time to make the food, and Dipper?” 

Her brother sarcastically saluted up to the bill of his ball cap. 

Ford couldn’t help but grin. 

“All you need to do is just pour a whole plate of pishgetti _right_ into my mouth!” Mabel elaborately gestured into the air, Stanford sure his grinning was going to start hurting after a while, “No breaks, just aaalll up in there!” 

“What are you talking about?” That remarkably bright younger twin shrugged one hand up in the air with a little wince. Ford almost jerked forward to remedy whatever was hurting, but the both of them were already starting up the stairs to change and clean up for their supper, “ _I_ was the one who almost got turned into brain soup!” 

“Guh! Creating death muffins _is_ hard work, bro-bro!” 

Mabel’s extraordinary arm strength for a 12-year-old affectionately shoved her younger twin brother almost straight through the wall as they kept walking up the first flight of stairs. Stanley was also watching them until his 10 o’clock shadow started turning towards Stanford. 

He sucked in a huge deep breath. 

“Well,” and before Ford could even comprehend it, he was practically sprinting through the living room to the employees only exit, “I _must_ write all of this afternoon down in the new journal before I forget!” 

His face almost met with the base of the sink. 

Stanford remembered slowly punching in the vending machine code with all the self-hatred imaginable weighing on his index finger. 

He really was a damned coward, but how could he not be? It’s one thing to feel sorry for yourself but another to be entirely clear-headed and realizing what hurts _for yourself_. Ford at last understood what hurt and what his mind concocted after a small handful of quiet moments over these past 30 years. This is what unfortunately happens when your automatic response is to preserve your own self-worth above everything else! 

Stanford was even more exhausted of always having his survival instincts turned on, but what else _can_ a guy do after living with a pathological liar, an overly dramatic twelve-year-old, and a certain emotionally abusive narcissist obsessed with capitalizing on his intelligence for those months after his twin and best friend got kicked out? The root of all of this really was on Filbrick! At least he allowed himself to “blame the parent” in this instance! 

Filbrick who kept bragging to everyone around him that his oldest son was going to make the family rich someday, Filbrick who would boast those last four words without ever explaining _how_ he imagined his oldest son would make him rich, Filbrick who never _actual_ _ly_ told Ford he was proud of him in _any_ capacity! And then there was the only argument they ever had when the man he had to call a father somehow discovered his studying anomalies. 

“Stanford Filbrick Pines, I may not know a lot about your so-called “science,” but studying weird shit isn’t going to make _this_ family _any_ money! I’m counting on you to get us out of this shit hole! DON’T PURSUE THIS!” 

Filbrick kept getting louder and louder straight into the receiver, Ford holding it away from his ear. Angry tears were already in his eyes and all resistance proved futile, especially with Fiddleford sitting right behind him air plucking that ridiculous banjo of his. Stanford ached to scream right into the transmitter “I wish you threw me out with Stanley, remember him?!” 

Stanford [no middle name now] Pines was a damned coward even then. 

The thick air still swam around his temples and swept against both ankles, Ford realizing he had already walked out of the kitchen. 

And he would always be a coward, although a consistently self-vindicated one if he kept running away from Stanley like this! 

His temples swayed even heavier as he stood right there in front of those back stairs where he stood almost envious of two 12-year-olds over seven hours ago. 

He could always try retiring to his old bedroom and try to sleep, that is, if Ford wasn’t already dreaming right now! It already was a reprieve kind of day between the completely demolished trans-universal gateway and being between inventions. But waking up in a room where all of those nightmares had happened and meeting a single eye hovering over him wasn’t exactly the smartest decision Stanford had ever made. 

A pressure wave rippled up into his brain as he lifted one foot in a direction that wasn’t towards the vending machine. 

Stanley would have just yelled at him if Stanford stayed in that same foyer for a few seconds more, right? But then assuming things outside of science never went that well for him anyways, the facts always being the things that ended up sticking right out. The facts of the fighting officially being so preposterous and yet so above reproach at the same time could not have been any more prevalent now. Yet Stanford Pines stood right here as if he had never been on the run for the past 30 years using these old adolescent survival instincts all over again. Perhaps there was no better prescription than just to forgive Stan … at least in his mind. 

The step underneath his boot squeaked, Ford immediately scrambling to take off his boots. 

Stanford Pines, you’re out of your mind, you damned idiot! 

Stanley has gone to jail multiple times and there’s a good chance he sleeps with a gun under his pillow like _you_ would if you’d bother sleeping, you damned knucklehead! 

But his stockinged feet felt propelled to go upstairs like he was still in some kind of dream. 

He could always stand in Stan’s doorway whether he was sleeping or not, muttering as quickly and quietly as possible, “Stanley, I missed you and I know I don’t deserve your kindness and I don’t hate you and I can’t live with _you_ hating _me_ although I understand why you would and I’m **_so_ ** sorry I have been an awful older brother and breaking my oath like I did. You can keep the shack and your tourism business, but just give me my name back and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of my days and thank you for saving me earlier, and for the jelly beans.” 

It couldn’t be too hard, right?! 

Ford was out of his mind. 

He reached the top landing. 

The next flight of stairs was even darker compared to the last one, this ominous shade of black strangely much scarier than whatever that was down in the living room. Pressure wave by pressure wave kept surging up each step and a little faint moonlight started outlining the rungs ahead of him. Stanford’s heart rate started speeding up the more he walked up them. 

This was probably just as scary as the time Fiddleford and he abandoned the forest bunker. He ran for his life with all of his papers flying over the place catching up to McGucket; the few implements he needed back at the house rattling around in his toolbox and assaulting his over-sensitive eardrums. But Ford was absolutely sure that horrible shape-shifter was still running after him until he stopped to catch his breath halfway towards the shack. Of course, he had taken all the necessary precautions and contained it in one of the cryogenic chambers! Was he completely sure he wasn’t dreaming _now_? 

But would a real life-Stanley leave him jellybeans like that though? 

Stanford reached the top of the stairs scoffing at himself, his arms wrapping across his chest. The obvious absence of his trench coat made him a little uncomfortable, but the forearm warmth did feel a little more coat-like in battling this much thinner lethargic air. 

Stanley’s bedroom door could not have looked any more obvious from this angle as it stood in the middle of the long hallway. That faint moonlight voltage almost created half of a square shape on the wooden floor in front of it like some kind of welcome mat. Well, there was that _and_ the no minors allowed plaque _and_ a do not disturb sign over the knob. Ford huffed as he turned to face it, his chest flexing under the heavy weight of his arms. A picture of Dipper crossed out with red marker and that familiar large handwriting scrawled out underneath it “THAT MEANS YOU” _is_ one of the few things anyone would expect on a grown man’s bedroom door! But Stanford couldn’t help but grin, completely unphased. 

And they really changed _so_ much after all of these years?! An 8-year-old Stanley did the exact same thing when a 2-year-old Sherman got into his G.I. Joes. He just locked them in a miniature safe then taping a written warning on the front as if a 2-year-old could perceive the words! 

Damn it, Stanford, Stanley _could_ always take you for a thief and shoot you with that gun he has under his pillow! This is a nightmare; this _has_ to be a nightmare! 

And like a nightmare, he could feel his hand reaching for that doorknob anyway. 

It turned under his grip. 

But he didn’t expect it to do that by any means! _This_ was a real Pavlovian feat for a guy who wanted everyone to leave him and his bedroom alone! 

Ford sucked in a sharp breath and the sound hissed from a clear distance as he opened the door a little wider. Its hinges didn’t even creak. Some of the moonlight from over his shoulder outlined a sideways facing bed just a few meters from the doorway. Stanley was sleeping rather soundly on his side with a green blanket around his waist, his white undershirt-dressed back pointing towards the door. 

He saw it. 

There was half of a red squiggly line on the upper half of Stan’s shoulder, the raw arrow tip, the left dot that signified the “it’s” in the warning sigil of “careful, it’s hot.” 

“You ruined your own life!” 

Stanford kicked his own brother right in the shoulder hearing nothing but blood charging through his own ears like a swarm of bees. Before he even realized it, Stanley was slammed up against that always searing hot control panel screaming a sound that shattered right through all of the buzzing in his head. Ford returned into his body fast, a sobering clarity he hadn’t felt in 10 years stabbing at him underneath his skin. 

My brother is hurt … I accidentally hurt my brother! 

This wasn’t a part of the plan! 

Ford did that! 

He clapped his hands over his mouth, his shaking legs almost giving out right there in a hallway he shouldn’t even be in in the first place. 

He _real_ _ly_ did that! 

Stanford exhaled a shaky breath into his palms, tears dripping down onto his fingertips. 

Everything of that fading substantial memory came rushing back; how he fought _so_ hard to do the right thing, how he begged Stan for help he didn’t think he was even worthy to receive, how he still trusted his brother in some strange capacity, how one wrong move would somehow bring Bill Cipher into this dimension, how Ford _hated_ getting rid of the best 6 years of his life before discovering those cave drawings, how all he really wanted to do was wrap his stupid arms around that infuriating knucklehead and whisper that he didn’t mean any of the words that kept coming out of his mouth. 

But as he would have pointed out to the kids down in the testing area, anger _does_ fuel anger. Stanley’s anger over being kicked out fueled all of that initial fury over the Perpetual Motion Machine that never really manifested itself with Filbrick’s butting in. Stanford didn’t even feel like he had any control over his own actions! For every action there was a reaction, and for every punch there was a defensive kick almost as if a physical manifestation of that monozygous curse or the Cubitum Serpentibus’s own Ouroboro. 

Well, Weirdist, there’s no better time than now. At least the forest creatures' nickname for him alleviated a few more tears. 

“S-Stanley” a softer high-pitched whisper shook out from what felt like a million miles away from himself. Stanford even sounded like he was six-years-old again and scared awake from a nightmare in that cramped three-bedroom apartment. 

Stanley didn’t even stir. 

A knot started forming in the back of his throat. 

“S-Stanley, … I … I …” 

He sighed loud right through the opened door. His chest did feel an iota lighter just from the idea of admitting a kind of confession. He swallowed that knot away, spit hollowing up into his eardrums against the dead silence. 

“Af-after the p-past 40 years, I …” Ford cleared his throat into his shaking fist, all speech and movement feeling even further and further away from his own body, “I … I understand it’s no consolation, but I just want you to kn-know that I … I m-missed you an-and I know I d-don’t deserve your kindness and I do—” 

Stanley snorted in his sleep. 

“Rocky, come up the back; Skip, sail the Stan-O-War closer towards the caves,” he kicked one foot right out like a napping puppy then flopping onto his other side, “Poindexteryourewithme.” 

Stanford noiselessly gasped for air up against the hallway wall, his heart thudding straight out of his sweater. But he did feel even more inside of himself and it almost hurt. A kind of needle-sharp clarity stabbed at his wrists and shoulders reminding him too much of the time Cipher disguised himself as a teenage Stan and threatened him with a kitchen knife. 

No, this wasn’t a dream or a nightmare, this was honestly happening right now! 

This was real. 

And yet Ford didn’t know whether to quietly sob or chuckle over the fact that that knucklehead _still_ had dreams of his precious G.I. Joes! 

He leaned gradually onto the one leg closest to the door as he attempted to reach for the knob without being seen, that is, assuming if Stan _had_ woken up. But standing on one foot quite frankly felt a little ridiculous and too much like a Harpo Marx sketch on “I Love Lucy” or something like that. At least he didn't fall over as Harpo was usually wont to do as Stanford kept stretching out to grab at the knob. It took a few seconds, but he caught it and its sleek texture immediately sent a few dull daggers through his arteries. His air bound stockinged foot swung forward to meet with its partner and Ford carefully peeked through the doorway. 

Stanley still didn’t even stir as he was now sleeping on his back. The side of his aged half-shaven face looked oddly peaceful despite the life he had led up until this point. 

Stanford whispered a little scoff and shook his head, but a few tears blurred the image of a face not too unlike his own _and_ the one side his fist _didn’t_ meet with. 

He stiffened his jaw like he had when listening to Stanley explaining how he survived for those ten years to Mabel and Dipper. On top of already holding back _so_ many emotions except for his quite evident contempt, Stanford was nowhere near prepared to hear about his illegal activities. He wasn’t _even_ prepared to face an old guy who looked so remarkably like Filbrick ! There was _so_ much more to both of their stories; so many unspoken details not entirely rated PG if the MPAA ratings were like they had been 30 years ago. 

All of those details became even brighter in Stanford’s mind the more Stanley recounted the earlier chapters of their life; Filbrick hitting Stan, Ma calming the knucklehead down but never admitting to either of their faces _how_ Stan got hurt in the first place, Ford sobbing as quiet as he could into his own pillow not even knowing how to stop any of this from happening, Sherman throwing Legos at his head. 

But Stanley’s occasional knowing glances over at him that whole time almost felt like a kind of that old silent twin language until he brought up that fateful meeting with the principal. He felt himself holding onto those quick little looks despite all of that fury welling up in the back of his throat. So, Stanford kept grinding his molars together as if it was a way to stay present while standing next to the convicted conman the entire time. 

If it weren’t for Sherman’s grandchildren being there, he would have floated away in an emotional flood of his own making. Stanford wanted to cry and yet laugh and sometimes cry-laugh at some of Stanley’s nicer stories of their childhood and the kids’ reactions, but also resisted punching the daylights out of the old bastard until things would somehow magically turn a 180°, and he would start violently hugging the knucklehead and sobbing into his shoulder for everything he couldn’t put words to so soon! He didn't even hold any of that over Sherman’s grandchildren for one second, in fact, Stanford strangely welcomed it, knowing he would end up regretting taking back his initial yet justified anger. 

He started guiding the doorknob shut, his grip against it even sweatier in the few centimeters it moved. But Stanley blinked awake. Stanford held his breath as he froze right up. His knuckles clenched almost white against the knob, his peripheral nervous system churning with cowardice and well-calculated defeat. But the old knucklehead’s half silhouette kept staring into the ceiling and this was even more nerving than his anger. 

“Unnnhh?” 

Move your body, Pines! He’s going to pull that gun on you! 

Ford wanted to hold his breath on top of already holding his breath, the doorknob rattling against his shaking fist. 

Please don’t do anything stupid, Stanley, _please_ don’t do anything stupid! 

He closed his eyes not even caring about that dark place behind them, his shoulders shooting up towards his earlobes. 

“Ford?” 

Even Stanley still whispered like a younger version of himself. 

Ford’s grip on the doorknob moved only a few more centimeters. 

“Sixer?” Stan’s voice cracked beyond this now tear-streaked darkness. 

But he would forgive the nickname at least in the seconds after being rudely awoken. Stanford allowed himself to sigh out and down towards the tips of his socks, his shoulders dropping from his ears by just a little. 

He could feel those old familiar spaces in his intuition devoted to preserving himself from Bill Cipher burst right open anyway. His head swam with panic as it trickled into those old but not- _so_ old feelings. But there was no way to know if Ford was really dreaming or not, and if he _was_ dreaming, that nickname was a very strong indica to r that Cipher was struggling to make an appearance in Stanley’s form! But Stanford made no deal _nor_ offered any consent, and he _did_ have the sentient plate put in! _Why_ was this always so difficult to remember? 

One minute ticked by and then another. 

A deep wet sniff inhaled from somewhere outside this darkness and it didn't sound like Ford had done it either. He didn’t even realize he was already biting the inside of his own cheek as he opened his eyes back onto a half-lit Stanley. Even more solid gray hair started tilting towards the outer edge of his white pillow like he was trying to see over something, and he didn’t even seem to look very angry. In fact, Stan almost looked calm, maybe even sad? 

Stanford felt like he had even less control over his own actions as the doorknob automatically pulled in the opposite direction, his eyes slamming shut all over again. 

He got hit by an ice-cold fan the deeper he walked into the dark junkyard of a bedroom. Stanford almost chuckled, not even remotely surprised by this. But with his eyes closed, the temperature and the way the air smelled just felt so … 

so … 

_Stan_ , but the Stan he _once_ knew? 

He crossed his arms over his chest, Ford feeling even more inside of himself. But he screwed his eyes shut even tighter, knowing there were tears still on his face. He didn’t want this dream version of Stan seeing him like this and _definite_ _ly_ not a usually vulnerable and cranky version of a freshly woken up Stanley Caryn Pines. 

But walking with your eyes closed is never an easy task and Ford almost stepped on so many shapeless nick nacks on the floor. He _still_ wasn't surprised by any of this. His head started swimming as he made it around the bed’s metal foot railing, Stanford’s arms stiffening even harder across the material of his turtleneck. A little of that warm and thick dreaminess started floating around him all over again. 

Ford sat down on the furthest corner of the bed and its soft mattress bounced up underneath him, his spine blindly meeting with a few ice-cold iron rods of the footboard. The cold penetrated right through his sweater, and he at last shivered outright. But there was no surprise at this either. Stanley always liked to sleep with the room cold, Stanford remembering how he always piled on the blankets even in the summer. His feet lifted onto Stan’s bed and both knees drew up towards his chest. 

It felt like a minute passed and then another. 

He pointed his closed eyes down at his knee caps and fought _so_ hard from dropping his forehead down onto both of them. But the rattling fan kept blowing its ice-cold air onto one side of his neck, Stanley’s concerned-sounding breathing ahead and off to his right side almost lulling him to sleep. Perhaps now that he had achieved a kind of target in this dreamlike maze, maybe Ford could finally wake up now and start on his newest project. 

He held his breath even deeper in his chest. 

The air felt like it was vibrating too much like those minutes after the Cubitum Serpentibus. Ford kept waiting, _waiting_ to finally wake up down in the basement, but it wasn’t happening any time soon. 

Stanley’s respiratory system started breathing a little heavier, that fan aggressively puffing away as it kept rocking back and forth. 

The mattress bounced almost cautiously underneath the still soles of his socks. 

“I … I’m sorry, Stanley,” he whispered, Ford still terrified to even open his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids felt far too comforting against his words. 

He really was a coward and if 17 years of experience was any indicator, Stan had to have been angry, Stan _was_ angry for having been woken up! 

Stanford could hear himself clearing his throat, then sniffing to evaporate a few more tears. 

“I, uh, I m-might be dreaming right now.” 

It sounded like Stanley was taking a deep breath from the opposite side of the bed, and he sat there completely resigned to whatever the consequences. 

Another minute or perhaps just seconds passed by. 

The silence became even more deafening. 

The sheets noisily shuffled and the mattress sprung up from underneath him all over again. But before Ford could even realize it, the top of his elbow was pinched and hard. 

He snapped his eyes wide open, slapping one hand over his mouth and the other forming a light fist which didn’t even attempt to punch Stanley’s hairy bicep. But a lamp on a bedside table was turned on and blue and purple orbs from having closed his eyes too tight blinked across a disheveled-looking Stanley Caryn Pines pushing himself up to recline against the headboard. He was smirking like he was 10-years-old all over again and even his now-gray hair still stuck up in all directions like it used to. Ford fought from grinning even wider. 

That little swing might have been a _little_ _to_ _o_ soon after that punch in front of the portal, but Stanley almost didn’t even care. In fact, it felt a little too good as he felt a huge dopey smile grin over at this old-guy version of his older brother slapping one hand over his trap. But Ford kept huddling in on himself at the foot of Stan’s bed and looking a tiny bit terrified under that owlish expression. Well, glad to know some things didn’t change? 

Stanford could hear himself chuckling into his hand and its low sound warmly reverberated against his palm. He could hear every last vibration of it and up close and oh no, he really _wasn’t_ dreaming, was he?! The spot where Stanley pinched him tingled, his finger pads vibrating a different kind of frequency on either side of the nip. Both vibrations kept going deeper and deeper in to his skin and Ford knew he definitely wasn’t dreaming now. 

Stan crossed his arms with a little satisfied chuckle, a little shiver tingling up his spine from the nice cool temperature of his bedroom. Yeah, maybe the tiny swipe _was a_ little too soon, and sure, he maybe kinda wanted to cower up against these iron bars behind him a little bit. But a less owlish-looking Ford started chuckling into his hand and well, Stan found it a little hard to not chuckle right back at him. 

Great Barnum! 

This felt too much like when they were kids the minutes before they fell asleep. They would always end up giggling as quietly as they could over something dumb, Stanley looking up to the nerd on the top bunk knowing they were going to be OK. Somehow the last 40 years felt like they didn’t happen, but did all at the same time. He started getting another one of those headaches from always having to ride that gray area. 

None of this even felt remotely awkward as they both kept laughing at each other. But their chuckling slowly tapered off into total silence; the lopsided fan’s white noise humming even louder with its asymmetrical tapping against the dresser. Stanford could have almost fell asleep to the metronomic sound and not justinto a nap this time! 

Stan still had no idea what just happened, but to tell you the truth, he didn’t care. Now, he was definitelyawake, and yet all of this felt like a great dream all at the same time! All he remembered was groggily blinking his eyes open onto the ceiling and just off the corner of one of them, an adult-version of Ford’s shadow was standing partway behind his already propped open bedroom door. Stan must’ve looked but not-looked at the guy too much over these last few days because under any other circumstance, he would have grabbed that bat from underneath his bed so fast, no intruder would even know what hit him! 

He still didn’t even know _what_ to think, but he knew this felt way too much like all the times Ford used to wake him up after having a nightmare. But he also knew he honestly didn’t care even after 30 years and then the 10 before _that._ Well, he probably cared a _little_ but _didn’t_ in the broader sense of the word!! Maybe he had even less to lose now after forgiving Ford in his mind. I mean, what was the worst thing that could happen now? His only immediate family member disowning him? Bring it on. 

It also kind of helped that Stan was too exhausted to give a crap after fuming for, what, a solid week _and_ after having to save Ford’s dumb keister earlier? 

The heavier air vibrated like it did post-snake two days ago … 

“This is weird,” Stanley whispered, although he didn’t need to as he looked everywhere else but back to the foot of his own bed. But at least his add-ons on the shack did have pretty decent insulation after having those thin walls of his childhood. 

“What is, Stanley?” those three words fell out warm as if the articulate enunciation came from his heart more than his throat. 

Stanford sat up a little straighter with his knees still up against his chest. He felt even more alert as the mattress lurched underneath him, that stupid fan now blasting its ice-cold air against the bare nape of his neck instead of onto his sweater. 

But didn’t Stanley have a gun under his pillow? 

The fan rocked its metronomic rhythm from one side to the other. 

“This.” 

Ford closed his eyes, not even caring about the dark behind them as they turned towards his knee caps. He could feel his fingers tucked into his arm pits clench up beyond all of this tear-blurry blackness. 

The fan rocked from the other side back to the prior. 

Stanford Pines, you’re a goddamn coward. 

“I mean, I’m so used to hearing you read that book by that Toe-keen guy out loud above me.” 

Stanford snorted down to his knees. 

“The Hobbit, Ley,” he whispered as he opened his eyes, his voice not even sounding so far away anymore. The release felt mountains lighter than anything Stanford believed himself capable of feeling, his nervous system feeling like it was being attacked by several heated pin pricks. He could feel a huge smile beaming right off his face over at Stanley who started brushing through his own sleep-tousled hair. Oh, he, he really did use that old nickname just now, didn’t he? He didn’t even notice it right away. But that old knucklehead perked up a little taller like he did, Stan’s whole face brightening right up even as his fingers got stuck in the knots in his hair, “and _Tol_ kien.” 

“Eh, Toe-Keen, Tolkien.” 

“Knucklehead.” 

Nope, Stan was already grinning like a huge dope with his hand stuck in his hair, tears already pooling at the corners of his eyes. He stopped fighting them, after all, what more did he have to lose? 

Stanley’s face didn’t contort like a crying man’s would as slower tears slid out of his eyes as Stanford saw all of this without the method of loci _and_ a rewind button. Something in his chest jerked and a slow welcoming trench coat-like heat spread through his whole body. The damn knucklehead never could hold his emotions in too well, even as a kid and maybe he was the better for it now although it couldn’t have made him a very good con man in the long run. Ford’s huge smile sank. 

“Th-thank you for, ah, saving us today.” 

“Yeah, well uh, kinda had to save Dipper,” Stan shrugged one hand up into the air, his tank-top dressed shoulder sliding right up along with it. Stanford almost pursed his lips not surprised by his thinly veiled self-persecution, “B-besides,” he gestured down towards a pack of gum on his nightstand and not even caring about the mess or what Stanford would say about cheating or whatever, “I … _kinda_ decreased the odds.” 

Ford heard himself burst out laughing right up to the ceiling. 

Stan's eyes almost bugged right out of his head. 

He slapped a hand over his mouth as tears hit the corners of his eyes. Stanford couldn’t stop laughing and his tear ducts just kept leaking right out. A little something even melted off his chest somewhere between the hot tears rolling off his face and his breathing hiccupping right into his hand. He couldn’t even remember the last time he _really_ laughed like this, but Ford was pretty sure he hadn’t since they were kids together. 

Stanley’s eyes sank back into their sockets, and he loved every second of this. A huge grin almost hit his glasses frames watching the old nerd exhaust himself as the laughing behind his hand kept getting weaker and weaker. 

Ford gasped for air and somber tears started falling out. He could feel his forehead drop right down onto the insides of his knee caps from that distance as he attempted to catch his breath. But this was clearly overkill. He tried his best to stop laughing, but a few breathless giggles shot right out anyway. He sounded absolutely ridiculous, although that might be the point. 

Stan sat frozen up against his even warmer headboard feeling that age-old sensation to help or hug deep in his bones. 

He sighed, then gasped, a deep grumble clearing his throat, giggling, then gasping all over again. 

“Excusemeexcusemeexcuseme.” 

He sniffed hard in that safe darkness between his knees, not entirely sure if he should be embarrassed or not. But who else _could_ he feel this kind of ridicule around?! Stanford sat up a little straighter, lifting his tear-streaked glasses off his face and wiping at the slick pools underneath his frames. 

Stanley kept sitting right there as frozen as Walt Disney’s corpse and feeling an elephant press down on his chest. Man, did _this_ guy look like he was dead on his … ass? But Stan didn’t even know what he could do or say right now, or really what he could let himself get away with considering the circumstances. All he knew he _could_ do was watch, but not-watch the poor guy; but then he _was_ doing exactly that for the last few days anyway! 

Ford cleared his throat as he sat even taller up against the freezing footboard, but the move made him even more light-headed. He ignored the exhaustion and attempted to clean his glasses with the handkerchief from his back pocket. 

“Excuse me,” he heard himself mumble as he put them back on. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, although they didn’t quite have that extreme coat-like effect like before as he slowly looked over to Stan. Stanley’s bushy gray eyebrows winced right down into that old “defend Sixer at all costs” look in those brown eyes of his. The guy could not have looked any more like that anchor while he blindly bunched up his blanket, Stanford’s chest starting to ache a little bit. 

“Hey, uh, P-Poindexter,” he looked at the green blanket in his hands, feeling a few rocks in his throat, “you, uh,” Stan tried clearing his throat as his face felt like it was getting nuked up, “y-you look like you need this more than me.” 

He tossed the smaller throw to the lower left side of the bed and it landed at the holey tips of Ford’s socks. Stanley almost wanted to grin down at them not even a little unphased. Glad to know some things never changed! … ? 

Stanford could not have felt any more pleasantly surprised as he reached for it, that ache in his chest almost throbbing now. He could feel his head swim even woozier, Ford feeling even more exhausted and yet alert all at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this, but this head space has proven the most efficient to work with into the wee morning hours. 

“Thanks, Stan” came out warm all over again. 

He grinned back at Stanley almost choking on his own tears as he flipped the blanket up behind him. And there was that little brother capable of anchoring him even if Stan didn’t completely know what he just did. Or maybe he did! Ford couldn't tell, not after 30 years. 

A soft heat landed on the nape of his neck before draping down his arms. Ford huddled right into it like one of Dimension 3234-C's evolved turtle-like creatures with televisions for shells. The offering made him even toastier, and he never wanted to choke out those three little words of “I missed you” more than at this very moment. But he already knew he deserved whatever _this_ version of Stanley would throw back at him if at all. It didn’t help that the throw even smelled like … 

like … 

… the Stan he _did_ know, but with a few extra fading molecular structures. 

Stanford might have felt even more emboldened to say more than just “I miss you” to the old knucklehead’s face at this exact second, but as he sat even taller against the footboard’s iron rods, he got light-headed all over again. The swimming sensation almost took all of his resolve with it, but even that wasn’t too different from being speechless and yet verbose all at the same time in front of the Cubitum Serpentibus Variation on Newton’s Prism Experiment test area. It also didn’t help that this soft sheath of Stanley’s molecules mixed with his own body heat was starting to make him even drowsier on top of already feeling the Pacific Ocean wave in and around his forehead. 

He shrugged that same hand back up in the air. 

“B-besides,” Stan shot out a little louder than he expected, a few tears already in the corners of his eyes as he kept shrugging. He looked over his own blanket on Ford’s shoulders and stared into the fan’s white metal webby-ness as it kept blowing the Arctic Circle right on him. It really got harder to look at the old genius for too long, Stanley not even knowing what would happen if he did. He probably woulda almost-cried even more, and to be honest, all this almost-crying wasstarting to give him an even worse headache. 

“I, uh,” drew right out as he scratched the back of his neck, “I k-kinda _had_ to save Dipper since, you know, his Dad _would_ kill me.” 

Sixer chuckled, not even remotely offended. 

“Yes, well, that _does_ make sense. What is the kids’ father like?” 

“Eh, works a basic 9 to 5 office job, kind of …” 

“Boring?” and that old genius’s grin kept getting even bigger. 

Cripes, did the guy look so much like the boneheaded kid, he knew and loved! Stanley felt a big light bulb turn on right behind his face as he grinned over to Ford, and he didn’t even care he showed his cards so quickly. 

“Compared to us, Poindexter, yeah. Pretty boring.” 

They both chuckled almost at the same time, all of this feeling even _less_ awkward than it should have been. The uneven fan’s white noise blew even louder all over again, Stanford hearing nothing but his own breathing now matching Stanley’s steadier respiratory system hollowing through his eardrums. 

“I …” Ford tightened the blanket against either side of his chest completely tongue-tied, a warm and sleepy fuzziness falling over his whole body, “Stan, you … I …” 

He closed his eyelids and shook his head to one side. 

“Y-you would _honestly_ ,” he opened them back onto the old knucklehead, feeling a huge smile spread over his face, “trust Skip to sail the Stan-O-War?” 

“What?!” 

Ford slapped one hand over his mouth, Stan’s eyes almost bugging out of his head as he sat even taller up against the headboard. He almost forgot how much he used to love doing this. 

“H-how did y-you …” 

“Hm, well, i-it seems you still talk in your sleep, knucklehead.” 

And that smile wasn’t coming off his face any time soon either. 

“I … w-well …" 

Stanley leaped a hand from the back of his neck to the crown of his head. Either Ford got fed up and turned off the fan, or the room was getting a _little_ too hot. He tugged at his hair around the incoming bald spot and looked everywhere else _but_ back at the foot of his own bed. He was feeling a little warm all of a sudden and damn it, his face better not be turning colors! This guy didn’t need even more ammunition against him, but damn it, this felt pretty normal even for them! 

Ford kept grinning as he leaned up against the footboard. If he wasn’t holding the blanket around his person, he would have crossed his arms over his chest to assist with this even bigger smirk. 

“Six … F-For …” 

Stanford wrapped the darker green hems around either side of his chest. Heck, he really did almost forget what it felt like to humble the guy and it seemed Stanley hadn’t been humbled like this in a great while! If he could grin this lopsided smirk any higher, he would have. This was what it felt like to bust his own brother’s chops again and nothing could have felt more amazing and close-to-normal! 

“W-well,” Stanley sighed as he dropped his hand back down to the mattress, his cheeks losing a little of that embarrassing pink, “oh, come on, Poindexter, wouldn’t _you_? He’s an expert!” 

Stanford snorted. 

The very un-awkward silence around that annoying fan got even more deafening. 

It may have been quiet, but the air felt even clearer at least from Ford’s side of the bed. He felt almost weightless turning towards the bed stand without getting _to_ _o_ light-headed. But he observed that pack of gum underneath the darker lamplight, Stan’s alarm clock pointing at the 2 and the 45-marks, multiple Pitt-Cola cans, a stack of biographies on famous con men, and various snack wrappers all creating a kind of shadowed collage on its wooden surface. He really did think they changed so much, but at the same time … 

“Look, Stan—” “Look, Ford—” 

Stanford scoffed down towards his knees, his pants a brighter shade of faded black against the dying out light bulb. Stan could hear himself chuckling like he was a football field away from his own body watching Ford drop his head towards his own lap, that barely balding crown almost making fun of him as it stared right back. 

“Look, Ford,” Stan shook out a little quieter, but everything still came out like he was still a good football field away from himself, “I … I don’t want to yell anymore and I …” and a good deep breath didn't even shake that elephant off his chest, its trunk starting to grip his heart in a choke-hold harder and harder as he stared into all of that hair. Now that he had nothing else to lose, maybe he could at least meet Sixer partway … just a little bit. Hell, maybe, maybe a fourth of the way, tops! Maybe there was nothing else to do now but close his eyes and as a few “The Duchess Approves” characters usually say to one another, “think of England.” Whatever _that_ means. 

He looked down at the two shades of green on his boxers. They were already blurring together before he could say anything else and, oh great, _here_ were the official tears of the night! 

“I … I know you’re going to say you can’t thank me for bringing you back.” 

He closed his eyes and sighed loud. 

“But damn it, Poindexter, I … I would’ve done anything to get you back here anyway.” 

Stanley actually heard himself whisper that last part and his throat suddenly felt very, _very_ dry. He swallowed so hard, he could almost hear his spit rattling away in his ears. 

“I get why you have every reason to be mad at me, really, and maybe I did tear into some fabric of time and space or whatever, but I did it to get your nerdy little ass back here. This dimension needs you, bro, an-an—” closer-sounding sob staggered right out, hot tears pouring down his face a mile a minute, “ _I_ need you.” 

Everything went quiet all over again. 

Stanford lifted his head and stared a mixture of amazement and sympathy over at the old knucklehead. His eyes were remarkably far too dry as he watched Stanley stare down at the pant legs of his shorts, everything under his skin reverberating like some kind of idiophonic instrument. 

Stan couldn't have just led with _that_ in front of the trans-universal gateway? 

But would he have taken it just as poorly as some aggressive conman-showman presenting him like he was some kind of circus animal? But Stanley actually admitted he needed him and the three little words ripped into his chest, but in a bittersweet kind of way. Great Sagan, _he_ needed the damn knucklehead just as much! When _did_ things become so difficult? 

“B-b-besides,” Stan heard his voice crank up the volume a little too loud as this rainstorm finally let up. He looked back over at Ford and the old nerd could not have looked any more owlish-looking than right now, Stan’s green blanket almost acting as wings over his shoulders, “y-you _did_ tell me to do something, so I,” drew out for a few more seconds as he shrugged one hand up into the air, “did something.” 

The fan blew and rattled down against the dresser for what felt like minutes. 

“I know, Stanley, I know.” 

Stanford heard himself sigh right out as he laid his elbows on top of each kneecap. He felt almost run over by a semi-truck of emotions, but didn’t Stanley’s intensity always make him this way even when they were kids? He stared at the different shades of his red sweater sleeves in front of him; the top of the right one brighter against the bedside lamp and the left half submerged in shadow until its cuff, all twelve of his fingers pointing in towards one another. If he were much younger, just looking down at his polydactyly would have been easier now that Stanley was nearby. He sighed all over again and feeling genuine relief heaving against his chest. 

“I … I _did_ scream for you to do something. Of course, I _wouldn’t_ remember considering how the gateway rearranges human particles. I just ,” he drew a firm straight line with his brighter lit hand over to Stanley as he crossed one bare leg over the other, “ _can’t_ believe I lost what little faith I _did_ have in you so or something I unscrupulously _forgot_ then unintentionally buried over all these years.” 

“I … I remember feeling my protons burning up, then pulling apart.” 

Stanford looked back up towards an even blurrier image of Stanley crossing his arms over his chest. He looked like Old Yeller was shot all over again as he kept staring down to his bare knees. But Ford could feel that fight come back even more vividly, every punch and kick and then the lever hitting his back … 

“Th-the g-gateway was k-keeping me, ahem, wide awake b-but my mind kept blinking from consciousness to unconsciousness while I was getting sucked in and rearranged all at the same ti—” 

Stanley clapped his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth. 

“Ford, I _can’t_ relive that again,” he slammed his eyes shut against that seashell noise humming up into his ears. There was _no_ way Poindexter could even try to reason his way out of _this_ one even if it _did_ involve his beloved science, “I … I just _can’t_ relive that again.” 

“I suppo—” 

After a few more seconds, Stanford dropped onto his knees. 

After all, speaking to someone with his hands over his ears was a _little_ ineffectual as he inched forward on the mattress. The blanket must’ve already fallen off at some point, Stanley’s preferred room temperature not hitting him yet. He dug the tips of his toes into the full-sized bed, and his eyes almost bugged right out of his head. 

If Stanley’s story to Sherman’s grandkids was any indicator, he must have looked exactly like _this_ once he reached the other side of the gateway! 

Tears jumped into the corners of his eyes, Stanford feeling every last neuron and synapse in his muscles exploding like fireworks. 

He started to inch … half-inch sideways over to Stanley’s side of the bed and stopped a few inches away from the soles of his bare feet. His head swam with a little of that distant wooziness once he sat still. He reached out to grab just below Stan’s inner elbow crease and a surge of warmth ran from his chest down to his stomach, then all over, a few more tears making their way to the corners of his eyes. 

This was what it really felt like to be a real older (if only by 15 minutes) brother again! 

He wrapped his fingers around Stanley’s arm. 

A few tears automatically slid out of Stan's closed eyes and down either side of his nose just behind those cracked and tear-smudged lenses. Stanford felthis heart breaking and yet he also wanted to grin considering the current state of Stanley’s large dark frames too much like his own all at the same time. But after a second closer look, Ford’s eyebrows dropped towards his own glasses. 

Hey, wait a second … 

“H-hey, Stan,” he carefully shook the old knucklehead’s arm. 

Stanley’s hands came down from his ears, feeling something on his forearm. He opened his eyes and they almost fell right out of his eye sockets like a goddamn cartoon character’s seeing all six of those fingers right there. But should he be more surprised by this or Ford’s faint but completely unguarded voice behind that sea shell sound? That wasn’t the half-defenseless voice of a dumb old-guy scientist just finishing helping a spaghetti snake, thatwas a tone Stan hadn’t heard since they were kids! 

Stanford felt hot tears streaming down his face, never wanting anything more than to press their foreheads together like they used to at this exact second. But he gently squeezed Stanley’s thick bare forearm instead, the sensation of movement from body to mind feeling even sharper between his already raw synapses and neurons. 

“I … I understand,” he swallowed hard around a new knot in his throat, inhaling a shaky deep breath, “Great Sagan, _do_ I understand! I … I can’t relive a great many things that happened to _me_ on the other side of the gateway either.” Stanford stared down at his faded black pants with nothing else to lose now, except maybe reigniting Stanley’s ire, “I can’t even _talk_ about a percentage of them considering the colossal scars they’ve left on my psyche.” 

Everything still felt like it was coming from that football field as Stanley slammed his eyes shut and taking a huge deep breath. 

“ _I_ … I can’t relive th-the night P-F-Filbrick kicked m-me out.” 

That might have come out a little more stutter-y than he expected. 

Stanford couldn’t have squeezed his arm any tighter without inflicting actual damage. Stanley could feel his chin already wobbling, something even heavier than that elephant falling off his shoulders. 

“I …” he whispered even softer with a little sob, “I remember every little thing.” 

He tried fighting off this rainstorm, but gave up as it turned into a total monsoon, and he didn’t even care _what_ Ford would do or say. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen now? His only living immediate family member mocking him for not being a man like Filbrick always used to do? As Mabel would say, pff! 

“Oh, Stan.” 

Those quiet two words groaned straight from that warm gooey-ness in Stanford’s chest as he slid his eyes shut. He almost forgot why this color behind them was so intimidating in the first place. 

It wasn’t too surprising that Stanley remembered every detail of that awful night, although not to disregard his trauma or anything! Something alive and warm pressed against the front of his shoulder that wasn’t stretching out to Stan’s arm, a few synapses firing away at the touch. 

Even Ford couldn’t shake that yelling match either. 

He remembered being _so_ angry, but also feeling the sensation to leap to Stanley’s defense like he always did during their fights. Once Stan stomped into their bedroom every other time, Ford always ended up convincing himself time after time that “the next one couldn’t be as bad.” 

They kept getting worse. 

He really did use to think Filbrick’s high expectations were something like a compliment or something to aspire to. But he kept losing his respect for the man he once called Pa as Filbrick's lower boiling anger pointed towards him after ardently defending Stanley the way he did. Filbrick would never go after _him_ , after, all, Stanford [at the time Filbrick ] Pines _was_ the tested “genius” of the family and would make them all millions! But after a while, Ford found himself stifling his defending Stan any way, not even realizing what he was doing. He honestly didn’t even know what Filbrick ended up making him unconsciously do! 

He always did silently hold out hope Ma would kick Filbrick out, but that was never going to happen. But Stanley would always go to their bedroom in a huff as Filbrick stomped his way downstairs into the pawn shop or down the block to a bar. Ma ended up going down to find him 20 minutes later, leaving Ford in the living room with Sherman who would always end up making some kind of game of throwing Legos at his oldest brother’s head. 

He had to have known he was going to lose a brother on some level and there would be no way to really stop it from happening. But the question kept looming over his shoulders. When the time came, would he walk out with him? _Could_ he walk out with him, although feeling an older brother-like duty towards a pretty hopeless Sherman as well?! 

Then that final fight happened and that old sensation didn’t even came to fruition. 

Stanley ended up leaving the house so fast, a miserable yet angry Stanford sat frozen at the window with his mind overflowing with what he would or should have done ten minutes ago or even at this very moment. 

Sneak down the fire escape, you dumb knucklehead! Just do it! 

No. 

Stanford Pines was a coward and a natural freezer on the fight-flight-freezer response continuum even back then. If it weren’t for the principal and all of his science teachers egging him on ( _never mind_ Filbrick’s initial “he’s a genius” before they started coming out as manipulative!), Ford _knew_ he could have shaken off being mad over the Perpetual Motion Machine and would have jumped in so fast, Filbrick wouldn’t have known what hit him! But that’s yet another hind sighted excuse given both time and a little wisdom and maybe a _little_ exhaustion. The adults made him care about his abilities too much and look what it hath wrought, a goddamn gateway to hell itself and a yellow one-eyed Dorito of a dream demon! 

A little ghostly panic leaped deep in his nerves just from the memory. 

“I remember everything too.” 

He whispered from behind the safety of his closed eyes, the warm whatever-it-was curling and squeezing a finger-like sensation over the back of his shoulder. 

Stanley felt his chin wobbling all by itself this time. But there was the ol’ defeated little scientist pout he knew way too well as the old nerd looked like he deflated in on himself now sitting on this side of his bed. Stan couldn’t help but grin to himself. At least _some_ things didn’t change! Ford always used to look like that when he was being hard on himself. But this old guy version of his older brother kept knitting his eyebrows until they almost disappeared behind his glasses, Stan staring right back in total disbelief. He couldn’t help but grip that droopier blanketed shoulder a little tighter. But after 40 years and Barnum on ly knew through how many dimensions, maybe the meaning of the ol ’ scientist-nerd pout _had_ changed. 

“Why, Ford?!” he gruffly whispered as he shook his shoulder, “I mean, not to put it _all_ on you, but _why_ didn’t you fight for me?” 

“I …” Stanford attempted coughing away the tears already welling up in his throat, “I … I kept believing time after time they could never get _that_ bad.” 

He sighed loud down to his knees as he opened his eyes. 

Stanley’s feet sat right above his eye line. 

“I know now that’s a cowardly statement to make, Stanley, believe me,” Ford heard himself whisper as carefully as possible. He used to imagine this coming out at a much faster pace when he used to imagine a possible reconciliation on the other side of the gateway. 

“I … I really was mad at you at the time, but I also _didn’t_ want to punish you with whatever Filbrick was going to contrive,” but instead of repentantly staring into Stanley’s face, he kept alternating between his aged black pants and the pale sheet around his knees. He slowly came out of that whisper, still terrified to look up to whatever was happening on Stan’s face. 

“H-he was playing mind games with me too, and with everyone at school stroking my ego, I …” a deep sigh fell down to his lap as he buried his toes deep into the mattress, “I know _now_ that’s also an excuse, Stanley, but a part of me _still_ wanted to leap to your defense despite everything and I’m _not_ just saying that.” 

“I really did” returned to something even quieter than a whisper, Stanford feeling completely resigned to his fate. 

He looked back up towards Stanley petrified. 

Stan’s watery-looking brown irises did not look quite as angry as he expected. They didn’t exactly bore into him, nor did they shrug him off either as they roamed over his face. Stanley slowly quirked one side of his mouth up. There was no way to tell if this was a precursor to a grin or not. Stanford knew better, Pines men rarely give in so quickly. But then the guy _did_ show his cards remarkably fast for a Pines ... 

“I know it’s no consolation, Stanley, but all of that _is_ the total truth. I have always been a coward. I _do_ know that about myself now, I …” Ford huffed down to the few inches of mattress between his knees and Stanley’s mangled naked feet. “I couldn’t even have a proper fight with the guy in college, but,” he looked cautiously back up between his eyelashes to that old “defend Sixer at all costs” look all over the knucklehead’s face. The muscles in Stanford’s face almost fell lax just at that familiar protective look as he almost felt a smile coming on, “I knew all I wanted to do was yell into the phone that he should have kicked me out right along with you.” 

Stanford felt even more tethered to the mattress underneath him as Stanley sniffed back a few more tears while clutching the guy’s shoulder even tighter. He couldn't help but grin even wider, clapping his hand back down onto Ford’s shoulder. 

“Poindexter, I woulda _loved_ to hear _that_ fight.” 

“Hm,” Ford shook his head with a tiny grin as he looked back down at the two-inches of bedsheet between them, “and McGucket air-plucking Jethro Tull on his banjo the entire time.” 

Stanley snorted. 

He should tell him the weird hillbilly guy was still in town, but then that might start a different kind of shit storm. 

Many quiet seconds or perhaps minutes passed by just like this with Stan’s hand curled over his shoulder and Ford’s polydactyly on his arm.

None of it even felt remotely awkward or uncomfortable. 

It was no extreme accountability, but just two crotchety old men being sweet in the only way they knew how. It also may have also been no Mabel-prescribed hug, but very nearly _like_ one. 

Stanford sighed as he sat down on his heels. He dropped his head without closing his eyes this time, but looking down at Stanley’s disgusting corn-infested toes wasn’t _exact_ _ly_ the most attractive image to land on. 

Now with a few things at last out in the open, the air between them felt so strange and yet amazing at the same time! 

... at least from _his_ end. 

There was just _so_ much he could attempt to put out into the ether now; he knew he had to make sure Stanley knew that Stanford couldn’t always fight his battles even with Filbrick back then and of course how the Perpetual Motion Machine _real_ _ly_ broke, how he cried off and on that whole weekend, how Sherman grew up to make his life a living hell even while in college (there was no guessing how Filbrick found out about his studying anomalies!), how he spent their whole childhood pretending Filbrick didn’t affect him, what life was like after Stanley was gone without making it sound like Ford was guilting him in any way … 

“You’re not a coward, Poindexter.” 

He heard himself gruffly whisper, Stan feeling that elephant on his chest lose weight just from sheer relief. He kept gripping at that shoulder as it steadily rose then fell, all of Ford’s darker gray hair with nothing even close to a bald spot staring right back at him. OK, come on! How _was_ this fair?! 

A crippling sound groaned from underneath all of that gray-streaked hair. 

Stanley curled his fingers around his brother’s shoulder even tighter. 

Maybe Stanford was going crazy or it felt like the knucklehead _did_ kind of care after everything. A man capable of hating his own brother wouldn’t affirm or grab at his shoulder like this if he didn’t believe it for himself just a little bit! His chin couldn’t stop shaking and tears kept falling right out of his eyes, but somehow, they weren’t exactly happy tears. 

His shoulders trembled even harder a distance. 

Even after handing Stan some hind sighted excuses, however truthful to himself, Stanford still knew all of the awful things he did in this town. He didn't even care about receiving forgiveness for any of it, but he knew that he didn't deserve any Stanley's caring right back when it came to all of the problems that existed around his twin's daily life! But being told that he wasn't a coward didn't help much either! 

It's strange how four words could make him go back to that involuntary college counselor at Backupsmore in his mind. Dr. Fairweather always made him feel like it was the worst thing ever to admit to an inherent truth that was something less than "popular" to the rest of the world who would sooner make fun of his polydactyly than embrace him for who he was. He knew he remained a coward and without feeling like he was punishing himself for being such an obscure person! Stanley always understood that ... the Stanley of his youth anyways. Stanford could almost feel their half-broken synchronicity swimming in the air between them. What he actually punished himself for was not being a better older brother. In a way, all of this was more _his_ fault than Stanley's! 

After trading off with his younger brother in explaining their life story to extended family, how _could_ an older brother _not_ feel an overwhelming responsibility?! Stanley real ly laid himself out to those kids, despite excluding the less than desirable details and proving he could still somehow trust another human being. Nothing could have felt so strange ly cathartic on Stanford's end! He could feel the responsibility harden inside of his body as he took those oldest brother reigns all over again. But _that_ went so well as the more than reasonable conditions came right out of him. Stanford Pines did it to himself _and_ without an adult getting in between the two of them this time! 

A shudder went down his spine as he felt the weight of those reigns against the horrible deeds he almost did to this town, _this_ dimension. 

He sobbed a little, but it didn’t feel like it was actually coming out of him. 

“Stanford Pines, you’re _not_ a coward,” he spoke a little gentler this time. 

Ford’s shoulder shook even more uneven as he sobbed a few broken breaths. 

Stan gnawed on his bottom lip. 

He knew he didn’t _hafta_ be the kid’s defense, but at the same time, he kinda still wanted to! It even kinda felt like a second chance or something. 

“You’re my nerdy older brother!” 

Nope, a few tears almost closed his throat with _that_ one. Stanley took a deep, sharp breath like it magically kept him from breaking as he kept holding onto the Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride that was Ford’s shoulder. 

“Y-you’re a badass interdimensional traveler rock star! Have you _seen_ the way Dipper looks at you?!” 

Ford managed to chuckle between one or two erratic sobs that did not sound like it was legitimately coming out of his own mouth. 

But he was not anything close to “badass interdimensional traveler rock star.” There was no way to explain (and maybe with an element of convincing) to Dipper and/or Stanley that all of that “interdimensional traveling” was his being on the run from Bill Cipher. It all was just stupid, mindless survival, but with a few good little solo adventures thrown in here and there. He even felt a little proud and yet ashamed all at the same time, the sentiment more than perfectly reflecting the whole situation. But then Stan made so much progress with the gateway, he _did_ deserve to know the whole ugly story behind it even if Stanford would come out at the other end looking like the worst person … in _this_ dimension anyway. 

Maybe, maybe his “interdimensional traveling” was not so different from Stan’s taking his own name here in Dimension 46’\\. People _do_ tend to do stupid things, and especially in the name of survival. Sometimes people even deliberately end up getting tattoos with an army of octopus-armed warrior piglets as a sign of peace and respect in order to record their stories in return! But Stanley did something especially abhorrent and yet after the last two or three days, Stanford could kind of understand even in his bitterness. 

Now that he knew how to access his method of loci again, he went into that room that even had the original shack’s door and watched the few minutes of their first face-to-face in ten years before going downstairs to the gateway. Stan’s face was so full of hurt and desperation, Stanford felt his proverbial chest ache even harder than when he lived those moments. Great Newton, maybe Stanley _did_ deserve to hate him! 

“Y-you really had faith in me t-to do the job?!” 

Nope. 

Stan’s throat clogged right up with tears much like the current state of the kitchen sink. 

He coughed once, then twice, Ford’s polydactyly releasing his arm. The space at the top of his forearm weirdly tingled. 

“Stanley,” Stanford heard himself coarsely yet sweetly whisper right out as he took his hand off Stanley’s arm. His fingers felt warm as he brushed them through his own hair, but the little move made him even more light-headed. Stanley kept sitting even straighter up against the headboard, his hand remaining on Ford’s shoulder like it was planning on going anywhere any time soon. 

But where could a man _even_ start with such a broad yet rhetorical question like that?! 

Stanford finished brushing through the last of his hair as he peeled himself off of his heels. He ended up even dizzier. But from where he was kneeling on the mattress, it was easier to look straight into Stanley’s eyes. For the first time in Ford didn’t even know for how long, he looked right into them with no intent of looking away anytime soon. But there were a few tears in their corners, bushy eyebrows wincing down like Stan didn’t even want to hear it. They both really did end up on the other side of adulthood with matching trust issues and this was kind of actually comforting. 

“Stanley” he sighed out, tugging at a handful of hair at the back of his head. Stanford’s toes dug deeper into the mattress as if its very springs could keep him tethered in this moment, “I think in hindsight, I never _stopped_ trusting your always wanting to do the right thing. So, in a way, yes, I _did_ trust you a little even after everything.” 

Stanley perked up a little too amazed. 

Ford felt a little grin lift the corners of his mouth as he tried meeting Stan’s eyes, but they kept roaming his face. 

Maybe looking each other in the eyes will take some time. 

“B-but I _had_ made a plan,” Stanford heard a firmer voice come right out of him as he stared down into the white fitted sheet just off Stanley’s hip. The dying light bulb’s brownish-gold light flickered against the brighter lit half of this stark-white ocean, “Believe me, Stan; I … I wasn’t entire ly thinking about _my_ role in _your_ part of the plan when I asked you to go and bury the first journal." 

“D-despite my,” he heard himself chuckle between his words, his chest feeling a little selfishly unburdened while also hating how all of it must’ve looked to Stan all at the same time, “having slept about 5 hours the night before you got here for the first time in weeks, I had never felt any clearer in my life despite the circumstances. I just thought if I explained myself as articulately as I could, even _you_ would go along with my idea despite the situation between _us_ ! You were to take the journal and go on with your own life; _I_ was supposed to go into hiding and give up practicing science or eventually be found and killed. I have enemies too, Ley, and I … I accepted both fates and was prepared for the worst.” 

Ford sighed, hearing the quiet hollow sound reverberate in his ears. 

He turned his head gradually until face to, well, _not_ face with Stanley’s farmer’s tan above his knees. Stan was right here; Stan was right _here_ and it kind of felt like he gave a damn! The feeling _would_ have to require words eventually, though probably much to the knucklehead's chagrin. Stanford felt a little smile at the corners of his mouth as he also wanted to burst out crying all at the same time, the back of his scalp tingling a tiny yet natural sense to second-guess all of this. 

“M-maybe it w-would have been better if the journals _had_ been burned and the gateway demolished, b-but you c-couldn't …” 

Ford attempted coughing the breathy high-pitched voice from his throat. He could actually hear a little of that old desperation Bill Cipher seemed to thrive on although the rest of his body felt every inch of the mattress underneath him and even a little of Stan’s body heat. 

“S-Stan,” that firm voice came out a little squishier this time. 

He looked up at Stanley’s bushier gray eyebrows almost colliding with his shorter eyelashes and _there_ was the knucklehead accidentally looking even more like Filbrick again! Stanford bit the inside of his cheek not wanting to ruin the moment, reaching his hand out a little cautiously for that same spot below the crease of his inner elbow like he was in Dimension 2534-D all over again and nearing the dangerous kaloolon. 

But maybe explaining it in a way that Stan _would_ understand … 

“H-have you ever made something you’re really proud of but kind of disgusted by at the same time?” 

“Oh, _definite_ _ly_ the whale-a-ken for the Shack,” Stanley felt himself nod, shrugging that hand on Ford’s shoulder right up into the air. His sweaty palm cooled right off in the nice freezing air, but _he_ wasn’t the one who huddled under blankets and sweaters even in the summer … 

Ah, crap … 

The guy actually said that with a little spark in his eyes! 

Stanford blinked almost surprised at this. 

Despite his "Mystery Shack” being a clear con of a tourist trap and front to making money in getting him back into this dimension, the old knucklehead _did_ kind of love this ridiculous business of his even if he wouldn’t admit to it out loud. That _was_ like him, Stanford feeling that gooey-ness in his chest become even stickier. 

“Sure, it _sounded_ great in theory, but pairing a whale and chicken together just didn’t feel right and besides,” his fingers fanned over at Ford as the guy kept gripping his other arm like it was permanently attached to him or something. Stanley didn’t entirely hate that idea … for right now anyways, “the glue gun can only stay in my hands for so long with, you know, the arthritis and all!” 

Stanford snorted and rolled his eyes. 

“Stanley, really? Arthritis?” 

“Oh, come on! _You_ haven’t been around to know!” 

They both slid a huge grin right up towards each of their glasses with only a faintly bitter chuckle between them. Maybe it was too soon to make jokes about the past 30 years, but at the same time, it felt too damned good! 

If Stanford thought the air a little clearer two days ago around the Cubitum Serpentibus Variation on Newton’s Prism Experiment test area, now it was next to smog-free _and_ dancing a goddamn polka! It felt so weird and yet so right, and he wanted to grin and cry like a complete maniac all at the same time. But did Stanley feel the same way? 

Stan felt 30 years younger and just wanted to moosh his forehead up against the old nerd’s like they used to. But there was no way to really tell if Ford even wanted to after all of this time. 

He leaned forward until he was on his knees in front of this senior citizen version of his older brother. His body probably cracked once or twice (OK, fine, five times!) as he stretched sideways and grabbing the blanket from between the rods of the footboard. Sure, Stan might’ve got in there a little too close to the old nerd, but he was almost half a brow bone away from getting what _he_ wanted and no, a little shiver _didn’t_ go down his spine just now! Why would you even think that?! But was it weird to admit just feeling his twin’s body heat felt even more comforting? 

“Uh,” he awkwardly, but not-so awkwardly grunted before he cleared his throat and scrambling backwards to sit on his heels in front of Ford, “Ex-excuse me …” 

The damn kid grinned that ol’ smartypants grin as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

But as to how Poindexter was operating right now after sitting for so long in what _he_ knew to be freezing cold _and_ looking like he was about to pass out at any second, Stan had no idea. Maybe this was how the old nerd used to work in the beta version of the Mystery Shack for that whole time! He didn’t exact ly like imagining _that_ either, although it would be pretty funny to see what Ol’ McGucket looked like as a kid. 

Stanley draped his blanket around the old nerd this time. He even made sure to get that spot at the very top of Sixer’s neck, remembering how he always used to complain down towards Stan’s bunk that he never got the blankets high enough. 

Stanford exhaled a big shaky breath at the soft impact, the corners of his eyes wet as he looked straight into Stanley’s. If he had known any better, his chin wobbled on its own a little bit. 

“You, ah,” he couldn’t help but sniff, feeling the full sleepy impact that was the heat that only a blanket in an ice-cold room could provide, “y-you _do_ know cold air contributes to getting the flu more often, right?” 

And, of course, only Stanford Pines could huddle under a blanket almost crying tears of joy feeling like an older brother again _and_ hearing epidemiology trivia come out of his mouth _at_ the exact same time! 

“So?!” Stanley shook his head, lifting his shoulders with a little shrug. 

Ford chuckled, looking down at the sheets around his knees, his head swerving a little on its own somewhere between heat and a little wooziness. 

“Look, I get it, Ford,” Stan mumbled as he sat back down and shuffling backwards until he met the headboard all over again. He could fall asleep upright in chairs, easy, but never in his own bed; so as long as he was propped up against something, the old nerd could keep him awake as long as he wanted! He started crossing his knees Indian style, but the back of his knee pinched even harder than the one time a crab accidentally got into his pants. 

“Glagh!” 

Of course, fucking charley horse … 

Ford shook his head back up with a little grin. 

“Argh, sonuva …” 

Stanley grimaced as he straightened it back out. He hissed all over again while draping his other ankle over the affected one. 

“But really, I get it now, Poindexter. Those journals were your life’s work and I,” he grumbled a little sigh at the tan lines on his shins, but at least that elephant was standing on its tippy toes now, “I had no right to even try that to the one. I know that _now_.” Stanley grabbed at a good chunk of his hair. 

Ford’s hand came back to that exact same spot on his arm even though he kept gripping at lesser cooler gray hair. But at the same time, at least _Stan_ wasn’t the one who inherited the Filbrick stripes! Poor bastard. All six of those fingers curled around his arm. 

“I coulda built any of the creatures from it, but I didn’t” and he kept clenching his hair even tighter, wanting and yet not wanting to close his eyes. Admitting this _might_ be a little to o embarrassing. Stan looked down at his boxers yet again thinking of England or whatever, “I … I just _couldn’t stand_ looking at your handwriting for anything other than getting you back. Y-you know—” 

He sighed down at his farmer’s tan. 

All six of those fingers gripped at him in something like a response. 

Stan almost wanted to groan like he was getting some kind of massage or something, something as simple as a twin arm-squeeze never feeling more amazing and like they were kids again. 

“M-maybe I don’t really care if I get that thank you anymore,” Stanley whispered even softer. It was pretty close to the truth, even if it sounded just a little pathetic out of his mouth. He slammed his eyes shut and almost saw that image of himself usually wearing boxing gloves in his mind _almost_ go up in a Wicked Witch of the West-like poof, “I deserve it.” 

“And _I_ don’t deserve _your_ opening the gateway either, Stanley,” Ford murmured right back. 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, almost feeling like he was eight-years-old again and knowing Filbrick was about to yell at him for selling stolen chewing gum to strangers on the pier at any second. 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Stanford took a quieter deep breath. 

Stanley's eyes were scrunched together so tight, his crow's feet had to have crow’s feet! It pained Stanford to see this look for the first time in over 40 years. The poor kid always looked _exactly_ like this when he knew a teacher or Filbrick would start yelling at him at any moment. 

But what made Ley even think he was going to yell at him?! 

“Well, m-maybe you _do_ deserve a thank you,” Stanford felt his eyes widen as he realized what the words already coming out of his mouth were coming to . He felt his whole body genuinely brighten up. After all, _this_ reasoning wasn’t the worst hypothesis he had ever come up with! But if he could squeeze Stan’s arm any harder, he would have as he grinned right into Stanley’s rather masterful stubble, "b-but not for the evils that could have come through the gateway with me.” 

“Stanley.” 

It sounded so firm and affectionate all at the same time, Stanford feeling like he was about to burst out crying just from saying his dumb knuckleheaded younger brother’s name. 

This was what it _real_ _ly_ felt like to _sound_ like an older brother again, not entire ly authoritative but not hesitant either. Perhaps … perhaps it even sounded like something close to a manifestation of trust! But then, trust couldn’t come back _so_ soon, could it? 

He took a huge deep breath as he happily sank back down onto his heels. Ford could feel his head swimming with an even thicker but less dreamy exhaustion. He almost forgot how good it felt in entering this old head space of ignoring bodily functions and zeroing into the strange clarity between his ears. 

He lifted his hand from Stan’s arm onto his face. The mixture of razor burn and stubble almost bit at his finger pads hinging at a mandible just as square as his own. Stanley stared back at him so wide, Stanford could have almost mistaken him for a 10-year-old if it weren’t for the stubble. 

“Thank you for saving Dipper when I was unable to and thank _you_ for saving _me_ when your instincts may have said otherwise.” 

He froze. 

Holy mother of James Bailey, _what_?! 

He … he _did_ just hear that, right?! 

Stan could feel the hot tears rolling down his face and probably also puddling on top of Ford’s hand. Wait, Stanford Pines was touching his face?! _Stanford Pines_ was actual ly leaning in close enough to touch his face?! Stanford Pines _actual_ _ly_ thanked him, although not real ly for the thing Stan wanted to be thanked for even though he may not even want it anymore??!! He didn’t even mind too much. Maybe it was the exhaustion or the reality that Ford was _still_ able to be an emotional mess even underneath how many pounds of thicker muscle mass, but wow, this was real ly happening _right now_! 

If he knew any better, Ford’s palm brushed over his cheek like it was trying to dry his face. 

Stan was a total goner. 

He sobbed, staring over Ford’s shoulder into the fan’s white metal cobweb. But out of the corner of one eye, the old nerd was smiling like a huge dope with a few tears rolling down into that crappy shave job. Stan pursed his lips, then folding them together once, then twice keeping himself from grinning like a total maniac as Ford’s hand went for his arm. His face tingled a little with that six-fingered imprint, or was it vice versa? 

He opened his mouth after what felt like minutes, but he snapped it shut. 

He could either make a joke that this is what happens when nerds get for liking nerd games, or actually be sincere for the first time in 30 years. Both me and my instincts _wanted_ to save you, Ford, you big dumb knucklehead! I wouldn’t have brought you back to this dimension just so you would get your big stupid brain eaten by a nerd-game person … thing … 

Still nope. 

His throat almost felt like glued shut by another incoming army of tears. Maybe this was a good thing as Stan remembered how they sat in front of each other when they were kids just enjoying the silence and one another’s dumb faces. 

Ford grinned an even sleepier-looking dopey grin as he blinked once then twice more. 

Stanley opened his mouth after a few more minutes and nothing was coming out. He really had nothing and yet everything all at the same time! 

“W-well,” Stan cleared his throat as he took his glasses off. He sniffed, attempting to clear out a few more foot soldiers still in his throat as he wiped his glasses on his shirt, “B-besides, I was, ah, heh,” he awkwardly but not-so awkwardly shrugged before sliding them back on, “I … I _was_ preparing for a disaster with your coming back anyway, Poindexter.” 

At least _that_ killed two zombies with one baseball bat. 

Sixer rolled his eyes with a little smirk. 

“Hell, I,” Stan heard himself chuckle from that football field as he sniffed a little harder. He crossed his arms over his chest, Ford’s arm automatically moving along with his. But the kid looked even more like he was knocked over then trampled by the Sandman’s dump truck. He sure was a shit brother for not letting Ford sleep, but for a guy who thought five hours was a solid night’s sleep … 

“I got a good deal on some canned brown meat in bulk just in case if anything went straight to hell. I really tried to think like you would in the situation, and I only hoped that I did everything I could to make you proud of me when y—” 

Stanley’s neck was going to get a crick for how often it was dropping towards his lap. 

“Ah, crap.” 

Stanford felt his eyes widen absolutely amazed, a little half-chuckle thumping in the back of his throat. 

If anything was a confirmation that maybe Stan didn’t _entire_ _ly_ hate him … 

“Stanley” he heard himself whisper, wiggling his hand out from underneath Stan’s inner elbow, then clapping it onto his sweaty bare shoulder. Stanford never could understand how a room could _be_ so ice cold and yet Stanley Caryn Pines would be just as sweaty as a snowman in a sauna! 

“I m-must admit after spending five hours furious with you, I realized even through my anger I was pretty proud and impressed at your figuring out how to work the gateway,” If a man could get light-headed just from wincing his eyebrows down to the tops of his glasses, Stanford was light-headed all over again as he felt himself sway a little, “But even with the probable danger of what could _and_ would have happened, y-you …” 

He looked down to his knees, these repetitive words starting to feeling even more redundant and yet still so truthful at the same time. 

“You really shouldn’t have.” 

Stan bit the inside of his cheek, keeping himself from grinning like a damned loony tune. A few tears slid right out without much of a fight. He didn’t exactly feel any better with this choice of words, but at the same time, Ford _did_ say he was proud of him! _This_ was even better than any dumb “thank you!” 

“Well, you can say _that_ until you’re purple in the face, Poindexter, but—” 

“It’s blue, knucklehead, _blue_ in the face.” 

“W-whatever,” he shook his head as he uncrossed his arms and flipping one hand up in the air in something like a shrug. But for a guy who essentially looked like Sandman roadkill right now, only Sixer could correct an idiocy or whatever it’s called! “Th-the point is that I will keep telling you until it sticks in that dumb oversized brain of yours.” 

“D-do,” Stanley stared back down at his farmer’s tan as he crossed his arms over his chest, not even believing what was falling right out of him, “you think you’ll ever _not_ be mad at me?” 

The grip on his shoulder kept squeezing him good and tight. 

“I don’t know,” Stanford shook his head as he sighed down at his thighs. 

But all movement, however subtle or sudden, must be abolished as quick as possible, at least in this moment. He could feel his forehead practically swim laps around Stan’s bed as he stared at his faded black pants against the stark white sheet made a little gold by the dying light bulb. He was getting a little tired of looking at the same thing so many times in the past Sagan only knew how many minutes or even hours! 

Perhaps he did _kind_ of know at the same time ... 

“I _really_ don’t know, Stanley. Th-the fact that you ignored me to open the gateway despite hysterical protestations,” but it all sounded so empty and redundant despite its overall more than fair and solid argument. Exhaustion was making him even more honest, and maybe this was a good thing for Stanley... or even for himself at the same time, “ th -the fact that _you_ tore into the dimensional fabric still upsets me, but now that I,” he tilted his head a little without reigniting any of that wooziness, “have managed to _mostly_ apprehend things, I really don’t know _what_ to feel anymore. All I _do_ know right now is that I would love to get rid of the gateway’s scraps in some way.” 

“Well,” Stanley shrugged one of his shoulders, “you _could_ always ask the guy who unofficially runs the dump. Weird guy, you’d like him.” 

“Thanks, bro.” 

Stanford’s frozen fingers curled around Stanley’s shoulder. He felt himself smile from an even closer distance as he looked straight at this ridiculous knucklehead. The image of Stan’s dopey grin kept getting blurrier and blurrier. 

Great Newton, did he miss this guy! It didn’t even matter whether it was the Stan he knew or the person he is now! They somehow felt simultaneously the same but different, and that was more than fine and yet not all at the same time. Ford almost forgot what it felt like being in this kind of exhausted once that tunnel vision-ed head space wore off. Everything in _this_ state always does feel so ambiguous and yet definite at the same time as he took an even deeper breath. 

“D-do you think _you_ will ever _not_ be mad at _me_?” 

He pressed his lips together. 

But would mentioning how the Perpetual Motion Machine _really_ broke reignite his ire all over again however sleepily? 

“Eh, well,” Stan shrugged a hairy shoulder even higher. 

“To be completely honest with you, Si-ah-” he sighed down at his boxers all over again. Stan rocked his head from side to side readjusting the kinks in the back of his neck, the alternating green colors of his boxers swaying a little bit underneath him. With the way Ford cringed whenever he used that nickname, it was probably best to discontinue it … out loud anyway, “P-Poindexter, I kinda sorta forgave you in my mind a little bit a coupla days ago.” 

Stanford heard himself chuckle. 

“I forgave you in mine just a few hours ago.” 

Stanley nodded to himself as he kept gripping the old genius’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but grin a little, although from that football field. Good to know the old bastard still took his time with things like he used to! … ? 

“B-but as for the being mad, y-y’know,” Stan slowly looked up from his boxers with a tinier shrug. He didn’t feel like the waterworks were about to magically turn themselves on just because the old nerd was right in front of him anymore. But Ford was sitting right in front of him a little too still, his head swaying a little on its own like he was looking at the Ford-version of the Nightmare Head or something … “h-how can I be mad at a guy who actually shouted for help even if he w-was …” 

Nope. 

He still couldn’t do it. 

His lips trembled a little from remembering Ford’s flying into the portal. Stan shook his head back and forth multiple times and cornering the age-old memory into some room in his brain, I mean, if brains _can_ have rooms in them! 

Stanford tightened his grip, absolutely amazed. 

Now there was even less doubt that Stan cared! 

The guy always held back like this, and he remembered accepting it without question every time. It was like all of the times Stan would defend him against Crampelter as he ended up denying that he was still angry even hours later although it obviously still affected him. Stanford remembered leaning down from the top bunk in the middle night and still finding the knucklehead dead asleep with his fists clenched up in front of him, his face moosh-ed up with total Stanley-ire. And somehow, people always thought Stanford the people-pleaser! He really ended up being the one who didn’t care about what others thought about him, but Stanley always wanted other people to care about him, so of course his ability to care would be consistent even after 40 stupid but not-so stupid years! 

“B-but i-is it,” Stan sighed back down at his tan lines above his knees. 

“Is it too late for us, really?” 

He whispered so quietly, Stanford could feel his heart break a little. 

“B-because I don’t want it to be, Ford,” Stanley kept whispering down at the sparse hairs on his knees not even caring about the back of his neck. He sighed even louder and he almost jumped at the loud sound as he blindly reached out for Ford’s other shoulder but meeting cold air. If Stan had known any better, the familiar blanket came to his palm than vice versa, “I-if you haven’t noticed with your barely balding head or stupid muscle mass or better knees than mine, we _are_ getting old and I … I really don’t want to die alone knowing my own twin hates my fucking guts.” 

Stanford's chin wobbled on its own as he pressed his fingers down onto that bare shoulder. 

“I … I would want the _both_ of us wreaking havoc in an old folks’ home together.” 

Ford closed his tear-filled eyes. 

He tried chuckling while gulping down the residual tears at the same time, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the sudden consistency of a bowling ball. The blanket tightened a little harder around his shoulders as he hugged the opposite hems against one another with one hand. 

“Oh, Stan,” Stanford heard himself whisper, Stan’s shoulder stiffening underneath his polydactyly. A few more tears slid out at the clear indication of trust issues not so different from his own, “I … I don’t hate you.” 

Stanley tried sniffing an even bigger rain storm away, but failed miserably as he looked back up at the tears bubbling out of Ford’s closed eyes and streaking down past the little smile on his face. He felt like a million and one bullets with his name on them actually hit his chest for once. 

“I …” burst out a little louder. Stan tried sniffing it all back in as his tongue clicked the dry insides of his mouth, the sound almost echoing right up into his ears, “I … I don’t hate you either, you big nerd.” 

Stanford smiled from that dark place behind his eyelids. 

If Stanley’s alarm clock was analog, seconds and then minutes ticked by. 

The air felt even more peaceful than it was compared to two days ago with the Cubitum Serpentibus. 

“B-besides,” Stanford sat up even taller with a little bounce in his spine and grabbing Stanley’s other stickier shoulder from the outside. The blanket slid down his back without much of a fight, but _this_ was worth the room temperature, “I-if we _really_ hated each other, I wouldn’t have let my unconscious lead me up here or y-your …” 

He lifted his hand off Stan’s cold sweat, gesturing at the five fingers on his own shoulder. 

“O-or we,” he scratched his temple as he sank back down onto his heels. The room started spinning all over again and Stanford struggling from not making his dizziness too obvious, “Or maybe we _both_ are dreaming the same dream. Twins can do that, you know! According to my recent studies on the catenet …” 

“It’s called the _internet_ now, genius,” Stan rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but grin like the biggest dork in the world second to this out-of-touch nerd. 

“Wh-whatever!” Stanford smirked right back, wishing he could cross both of his arms over his chest more for the effect than for warmth, “But according to my short-term research, there _has_ been studies on twins sharing the same dreams!” 

Stan rolled his eyes right up to the fake wood panels of his bedroom ceiling. 

“I swear, Fordster, if you say you’re dreaming again, I _will_ deck _you_ this time!” 

Stanford chuckled, feeling even lighter in these past few seconds. It even felt like a good percentage of that burdening weight over the top of his body slipped right off of him, but Bill Cipher’s hold, on the other polydactyly … 

He bent both of his legs to one side and sank down on the mattress, one spring after the other bouncing right up against his glutei. But Stanford didn’t sway too much now being on solid … bedding …, but everything from an extraordinarily light chest on up felt a little more tactile although from an even greater distance! 

Stanley burst out laughing a few seconds after and clapped his hand down on what he thought was the blanket on Ford’s shoulder. He scrambled around and picking it up, then tying it around the old nerd a little like the cape he was wearing when he came through the portal. 

Stanford swallowed so hard around the tears encircling his throat, the loud noise gulped in his eardrums. 

“Oh, damn it, Stan,” he sighed down at his faded black pants, his grip loosening on Stanley’s shoulder, “b-but for all of the broken science experiments and more than fair justifications on both ends, and as much as I _should_ be mad at you, I … I’ve m-mis…” 

He heard himself clear his throat, looking straight into Stanley’s roaming eyes before they started nervously scrunching shut as the rest of his face stiffened up. 

“Stanley,” he firmly whispered, leaning in and tightening his hold on Stan's shoulders. Both of them shook a little under his palms, and a little of that messed up camaraderie almost made Ford feel a little warmer even underneath Stan’s blanket! But perhaps it would be easier saying this to Ley’s closed eyes, but at the same time, after how many minutes or hours tiptoeing around these very three words, “I … I’m sorry, but I’ve missed my younger brother and I … j-just felt …” 

It could last for so long. 

Stanford gradually looked down at these black pants he hadn’t worn in over 40 years, almost forgetting his legs crisscrossed somewhere between the lighter revival of that almost-polka and summoning the courage to say what should have been the easiest three words in the world. But those disgusting corns were still right there in front of him as even more words came staggering right out of him and down into a total whisper. 

“... you …” 

“… should …” 

“… know … 

“… that.” 

He closed his eyes, not even knowing if he should be worried or not. 

And yet who was the “genius” who wondered why Stan reacted like he was getting ready to get yelled at?! 

Maybe this was too far of a stretch towards something close to a reconciliation. 

Stanford heard himself sigh, nervous and yet not nervous for Stanley’s reaction. 

“Shit, Poindexter,” shakily whispered outside of his dark eyelids, “I’ve missed you too.” 

That fucking elephant _almost_ went straight into retirement now. 

Stan kept gripping that dumb shoulder like the old nerd was about to go flying off into another portal or something. He sniffed in rearranging the tears in his throat before they started spouting out of his eyes all over again. Great Barnum and Bailey, _that_ felt _so_ good to say out loud! He didn’t even realize how much he _needed_ to say that! 

Not-quite Sleeping Beauty looked back up with the biggest nerdiest smile all over his face. Stanley met him right in the eyes. But there was something behind their matching glasses that looked more than a little nervous. Stan wasn’t too surprised; the old man really did a number on the both of them and he never even realized how bad Ford got it until a few days ago with that noodle snake! 

“You know, ah, heh,” Stanley shot a glance over at his alarm clock as he cleared his throat, “D-during that whole macaroni snake craziness a few days ago, I did think we still make a good team even if we’re pissed at each other.” 

“So did I.” 

He couldn’t help but grin like a total dork. 

Stan looked over at the sleepy old genius who was grinning just as wide right back at him. 

But his eyebrows collided with the tops of his glasses. It almost felt like he missed something a few seconds ago. So, the old nerd told him he missed him and, of course, things got a little sappy, but after 40 years, they were allowed! Stan honestly couldn’t think of what he was missing. Ford huddled even deeper inside the cape-blanket and this time, he was shaking. This definitely didn’t feel right either. It didn’t help that he looked even more freaked out than that one time in high school he tried saying hi to Esther Gershowitz between classes! 

Eh, give the great Stan-O a coupla minutes. 

He grinned right back at the Sleepy Dwarf from “Snow White” not even believing his luck tonight. This, whatever this was was becoming definitely a good thing and Stanley didn’t even care about not discussing the terms of their agreement come fall. Better repairing what he could until then, right? 

It crashed down on him square on the head, like the time Mabel got him with a water balloon from the roof. 

“W-w-wait a minute, _broken_ science experiments?!” 

Stanford’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. 

Now, he was awake! 

He honestly didn’t even realize _that_ came right out! 

But this couldn’t have been a good thing, what of that sleepy Stan-ire?! Manic fear stabbed at his already exhausted nerves, Ford’s knees drawing even closer up against his chest and almost dropping his head down on top of them. 

“C-care to share with the class, Mr. 12 Ph.D.’s?!” 

Maybe there was an advantage feeling like he had even less to lose now. 

Stan half-smirked over at the poor guy as he kept folding in on himself. This was really bad. That huge jolt of lightning shock came back to a complete standstill. But why would the knucklehead think he would be pissed off? Stan didn’t actually yell this time! 

Oh … right … 

But there was _definite_ _ly_ an advantage having even less to lose now. Stanley felt like he had nothing else to be pissed off about anymore, so, what was the worst that could happen?! What’s done was done! But Ford looking like this though … 

Stanford screwed his eyes shut even tighter, scared to death. 

Stan didn't exactly appreciate feeling like he was being treated like Cujo about to rip a guy’s throat out or something, but, glad to know someone else had just as many trust issues as he did? 

He felt his fingers curling around Ford’s shoulder. 

Please don’t be mad at me, Stanley, _please_ , don’t be mad! 

Stanford Pines, he deserves an explanation _right now_! 

He squinted one eye open. 

Stanley looked a little bit like Filbrick as he crossed his arms over his chest, but his bushier gray eyebrows and frown lines pinched together much softer than Filbrick’s ever could. And somehow his polydactyly was still glued on that shoulder in front of him, the sensation of skin under his touch rattling the forgotten realization down into his forearm muscles. 

How was Stan not completely irate right now?! 

Stanford slowly opened the other eye. 

The old knucklehead sat there with his arms still crossed as he shrugged both of his half bare shoulders with a blank look on his face like he was waiting for an explanation. Stanford owed him _that_ much, but would an explanation just make things even worse?! Would it all come out sounding like stupid excuses like earlier?! 

“Y-yes, Stanley,” he whispered, drawing his hand back to his side. It almost pulling hurt away. But then, perhaps something close to a physical demonstration of trust can only go so far in small doses. Stanford whispered a little sigh down at his kneecaps as he resigned himself to his fate. 

“Y-you were right,” murmured right out of him, terrified of looking back up. 

Another minute or just seconds ticked but not-ticked by. 

Stanford was a failure on top of already being a coward, but even that felt a little like self-punishment. He knew he was better than that; _30 years_ although on the run made him better than the insecure and under-developed nerd that he was. It was rather fascinating that 30 years on the run from Bill Cipher did more good for him than that half semester with the Backupsmore counselor ever did! 

“… an-and th-that's,” he lifted his head with a tiny nervous smirk, feeling a little more alleviated from a less than peppy pep talk, “th-that’s _Dr._ 12 Ph.D.’s to you, knucklehead!” 

Stanford took a deep breath, looking over Stan’s shoulder. 

The wall behind the headboard reflected the dying out light bulb and making it like a sea of whitish gold. 

“I-it pains me to tell you this, Stanley, b-but the Perpetual Motion Machine had low energy at the time and stopped functioning completely and when it stopped functioning completely, it broke itself. I tested it at least five times that weekend when I …” Ford scooched back towards the base board as if the soles of Stanley’s feet were on fire. His whole nervous system felt like it was on fire, sheer panic running through every synapse and neuron. The whole room started swimming all over again, although perhaps it was perhaps vice versa. 

He knew he was going to get called out on knowing this for so long and never telling Stanley anything! This was it; _this_ was the anger that he _really_ deserved! 

“Sixer, I … I tried telling you!” 

He wordlessly nodded towards the white wall behind the headboard, hot tears foaming in the corners of his eyes as he found Stanley out of the corner of one them. Stan still didn’t look too angry, but he did look oddly excited as a little of that “protect Sixer at all costs” look started wincing his eyebrows back down onto his glasses. 

“I … I didn’t know how to contact you at first, Ley, honest!” Ford heard himself crying out, a little helpless high-pitched noise squeaking between his words. Despite the tears coming out of his body, everything inside had never felt more alive and yet oddly quiet as he turned back towards an even more upset-looking Ley. Stanford welcomed the consequences. Heck, he was OK with being the one who got punched this time! 

“A-all of this, everything that has happened is on _me—”_

“Hey, Poindexter, it takes two people to fuc _—”_

“No, Stan,” he sternly murmured, his skin burning an old irrational anger that never came to fruition the night Stanley got kicked out. Ford could feel his skin get as hot as the tears slid down his face, everything in and around him getting even warmer and more overwhelming. Even his regretful tattoos itched from every angle. He violently untied then shucked the blanket off his shoulders and letting it pool around his hips, his hands going up into his hair. 

“Well,” he shook his head, however briefly, “ _perhaps_ it _does_ take two people to ruin something, b-but at the same time, a good percentage of all of this _is_ on me because **_I_ ** broke that vow **_I_ **made to you when we were ten-years-old.” 

Stan felt his chin wobbling as he tried sniffing away bigger tears. 

“I … I … Oh, Stan,” he groaned out _so_ defeated towards his knees glued at his chest. 

“I have been an _awful_ older brother to you; that’s the root of it all. _I_ let myself get carried away by the principal, by the teachers, by everyone who were just using me because _I_ just _happened_ to score higher marks than most of our classmates.” 

“I never asked for that” Stanford whispered, his wet eyelids slamming shut as he softly sniffed. 

“... and look where it got us!” came out a little louder. He could feel his hot skin itching even harder and the turtleneck over him offered no semblance of a comforting trench coat-like heat, “I should have paid more attention to you through all of it, but I didn’t. I should have. I _wish_ I did! I thought all of my teachers and more enthusiastic classmates were actually listening to me and caring about what I was saying, but they kept chipping away at me to the point that I didn’t know how to really reach _you_ anymore. You and I _both_ know the principal and the teachers _and_ Filbrick were pitting us against one another and I … I just,” Ford’s voice was shaking and the hottest, fattest tears were rolling down his face. There was no stopping anything now. He could feel his hand forming into a fist from a distance. 

“Gah!” 

He punched it down into the mattress underneath him. 

"If … if only Filbrick _hadn’t_ overheard me, if the adults had never gotten in the way in the first place, if _you_ didn’t feel so jealous of the work, if I didn’t try to talk over you, if-if …” 

Stanford whimpered a little. 

Stanley reached his hand out for the old nerd’s shoulder as it slumped even further in his direction. 

“H-hey, Poindexter,” he heard himself whisper as he shuffled further down his bed and gently shaking the poor kid a little bit. 

Sixer crossed his arms, staring over at that big ol’ clunky space heater off of the opposite side of his bed and very obviously avoiding looking back at him. He even pouted that ol’ scientist-nerd pout, and if it weren’t for the bad uneven shave job, Ford could not have looked more like the kid Stan grew up with! Stanley almost chuckled as he stopped shaking his totally validated idiot brother. 

He rose a finger up in the air. 

“Listen, Sixer,” he tilted it in Ford’s direction then tapping it down on his freezing temple, “you’re _on_ _ly_ the oldest by 15 minutes, so don’t get cocky with _me_ , nerdzilla, b-besides …” 

Stanley sighed down at the tinier hairs on his knee caps. 

“We just can’t if ourselves out of this situation, believe me, I tried it myself.” 

Stan could not have sounded anymore genuine and vulnerable. Stanford sat there totally amazed as he turned back towards the headboard, but Stanley was sitting even closer towards him and his hand feeling even warmer on his shoulder. He took his glasses off and aggressively rubbed the tears off his face. He sniffed a few times curing himself of this very well-meaning outburst, but at the same time, he was _still_ the oldest by 15 minutes! Besides, he wasn’t just the older _twin_ , but the oldest out of three knuckleheaded brothers and there _was_ a greater responsibility behind _that_ which Stanley always undermined even when they were kids! 

“I … I mean,” Stan shrugged his liberated shoulder. It felt a little too weird not having the old genius’s hand on it as he stared at the pale tan lines at the tops of his knees, “this weird town is kinda great and if everything had happened differently, Dipper and Mabel wouldn’t have been born or come up here to stay with me. W-we just can’t write some kind of alternative reality fan fiction to erase all the bad things that really happened!” 

Ford couldn’t help but grin back at him. 

A few more quiet seconds or maybe just minutes passed by with even more ease. 

But Stanford’s sinuses were flooding all over again. He cleared his throat and the sound broke through the dead silence, a little palpable headache bouncing above his eyebrows as he looked down at his knee caps huddling up against his chest. 

“I think” he slowly calculated as he looked up at an even closer Stan. Stanford couldn’t help but flinch backwards a little in the surprise of someone sitting so close to him for the first time since he was a kid. McGucket’s proximity always hovered a little further off in more ways than one. He shook his head, a little grin stretching even wider as he clapped his hand down on the old knucklehead’s shoulder. The room started spinning all over again, his sinuses in his face feeling like they had the consistency of trampolines, “Stanley Caryn Pines, I think _you’ve_ become the smart one now!” 

Stan scrunched his face up at the ceiling. 

He shot that same finger up in the air as he looked back down at the old genius. 

Stanford grinned right back at him, knowing this to be something of a silent reaction to Ma’s poor (or legendary) middle naming decisions. 

He felt himself lean forward attempting to grab his index finger. 

But Stan tried wiggling away from him in poor defense and even tried retreating back towards the headboard. Ford chuckled and gripped the knucklehead’s hand a little harder, his whole grip sliding down Stan’s freezing wrist. The knucklehead just put up a little fight as he swatted the air between them with his other hand and trying to form a fist with the other and pointing it in Ford’s direction attempting to jab at him multiple times. Stanford couldn’t help but laugh as he knocked Stan’s liberated swatting hand away from him with the top of his wrist, crisscrossing his legs like it would give him some leverage. It just came right back at him anyway. The roughhousing always started _exactly_ like this and especially when he felt like he had no control over his life as Stanley would always make him the aggressor. 

Stan lightly punched at the air around a blanket-less Ford, caring but not-caring about the punch in his direction from almost a week ago. He could not have felt more happily victim as he burst out laughing. But the old nerd tensed his arm up like he was one half of an arm-wrestling match and there was that muscle mass! Geez, Louise! Before Stanley even realized it, he was being dragged forward, but it was hard to tell whose forehead accidentally crashed against whose first. 

“YEOUCH!” 

“Ow.” 

Stanford leaned against Stanley’s forehead not even caring that the first collision in over 40 years _might_ have landed a little _too_ hard. A hug was _nothing_ compared to this! 

“I … I don’t think it _technical_ _ly_ works like that, Poindexter,” Stan felt his breath huff right into Ford’s face, seeing shaded yellow cartoon stars plastered over Sixer’s lenses. He didn’t even care about subjecting him to meatball hoagie breath, Ford had definitely smelled worse in their day! And sure, maybe he had been hiding that hoagie in his bedroom for a special occasion such as saving a great-nephew and a boneheaded older brother from a nerd-game. 

“Shut up, Stan,” Stanford joked as he shook his grip free, reaching for the back of Stanley's head. 

The old knucklehead chuckled and sighed enough to fog up his lenses a little, Ford happily closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Something incredibly peaceful and almost addictive laid on the floor of his lungs, everything outside of his body perfectly quiet. Even the middle of his forehead moved at the exact same time and worn-out tears automatically dripped out of his eyes. Stanford somehow knew _exactly_ what he was feeling. This could be nothing else _but_ that mackle! 

“Great Newton, Ley,” he happily sighed, “I’ve missed you so much!” 

“I’ve missed you too, buddy,” Stanley heard himself chuckle. 

“Wait, s-so you’re _not_ mad at me for the Perpetual Motion Machine?!” 

“Look, Ford, I … I figure I was gonna leave at some point. I just didn’t think it would be without you and” Stan sighed as he slid his forehead against Ford’s. He slowly closed his eyes and really laying it all out on the figurative table, “without telling the old man to go bite the big one before my grand exit. So, I guess we’re both the Cowardly Lion when it comes to _that_ old bastard, Poindexter. And maybe I _should_ be furious, but you’re back, you old nerd, you’re _final_ _ly_ back and I’ve missed you so much! I don’t even care about that night anymore unless it comes back to me before I fall asleep, but that’s trauma for you, I guess.” 

Stanford wordlessly brushed through a few strands of Stanley’s hair, hoping the knucklehead wouldn’t notice. 

“Can you at least explain to me the having enemies part?! I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Here’s a hint, it’s the spawn of dumbass car salesman you might’ve known back in the day.” 

“Your enemy is a _child_ , Stanley?!” Ford’s eyes opened, looking through those cracked and smudged lenses. But the guy looked dead serious in this small distance between them, Ford’s lips pinching together holding back a very loud laugh, “ _Why_ doesn’t this surprise me?!” 

“He’s Satan incarnate!” Stan drew out in the quietest whisper as he looked into Ford’s eyes through his lightly scratched glasses. They brightened right up like he was about to affectionately mock him at any second. But if Stanford knew any better, he sounded exactly like Mabel when she was being especially emphatic, “But, can’t you just let me in just a little bit minus all of the big science-y words?” 

“In the morning, Stanley.” 

Stan rose an eyebrow in total disbelief. 

Stanford rolled his eyes right back, the headache in his sinuses rioting just a little bit. 

“R-really, Stan, I WILL this time. Just … ugh,” he whacked at the knucklehead’s shoulder with his one free hand, “Ley, your breath smells like roadkill!” 

“So?” 

One pair of semi-crossed eyes from a near distance met the other, and two stupid old men started giggling like kids. 

“So,” Stan lifted his forehead a little then bumping it back onto Ford’s, looking at him right in the eyes although they kept crossing towards the bridge of his nose. The old nerd smiled right back at him like the big fat sap he was when they were kids. Stanley’s chest ached like that “steak and eggs” sensation from a few days ago, “D-do you think we can still be the best fucking mystery twins ever?” 

Stanford hummed a little chuckle, a little of it fogging up Stan’s lenses. 

“Well, I think the jury’s still out on that unfortunately,” his hand laid flat against the back of Stanley’s head, hoping he still didn’t compute the lesser manly-like affectionate display. Stan kept steadily breathing his _real_ _ly_ bad breath back into his face and Stanford didn’t even mind. He _had_ smelled worse in his time from this guy _and_ from various sources in other dimensions, “But Mabel and Dipper are pretty great from I’ve heard and attempted to see from a distance. I might not know them too well, but those kids are really something.” 

“Yeah, they really are,” Stan closed his eyes, feeling Ford’s freezing forehead underneath his. 

He blindly grabbed the blanket, then beating it out in the air before draping it back around the old nerd. He even made sure to get that higher up spot on Ford’s neck again. Even though what was coming wasn’t really not-bonk conversation, Stanley would have to be pried off by the man himself! 

“B-but this is the thing, Poindexter,” and he felt his eyes cross as he looked back at the original Four-Eyes Pines. 

“I need to get those kids back to their parents in piece. I … I don’t know _how_ ,” he lifted up his shoulders like Ford could somehow see them while being practical ly smooshed up against his face, Stan shaking his forehead against Ford’s progressive ly even colder skull, “to keep whatever you’re dealing with and them separate. I _don’t_ know how to make things close to normal for them!” 

“Yes, I understand your concern, Stanley,” but two out of those four eyes looked back into his almost crossing towards the sides of his nose, “but given the circumstances of who and _where_ we are, normal _does_ seem to be a pretty relative term.” 

“Still. I … I can’t close my eyes without seeing Mabel floating so close to the portal an-and …” 

Stanford wordlessly mooshed his face even closer into Stanley’s, lightly gripping at the back of his head. Even Stan’s capacity to love was still the same even after 40 years! His old bones almost ached to hug the knucklehead, not entirely knowing how to comfort him as the person he is now. It was somehow still too soon and yet not soon enough to hug the old bastard even if Ford _did_ run the risk of being killed by Stan-breath. 

A few minutes happily passed by just like this. 

Stan’s heart rate eventually matched Ford's. 

Stanford kept getting even sleepier, everything outside of this little Pines Twins universe a pure, thick swimming pool of dreamy atmosphere all over again. 

“I … I understand, Stan,” he could feel his eyes cross as they looked up into Stanley’s, a little grin raising the ends of his mouth, “I’ll help you in whatever way I can in keeping them from the Gravity Falls weird-ness however difficult that might be and Bil—” 

“Uh?” 

And there was Stanley’s horrible breath fogging up the base of his lenses. He couldn’t help but chuckle remembering this very tactile memory when they were kids. His heart just felt so warm and gooey, it might end up seeping out of his nose or mouth or where ever! 

“N-never mind about that. I’ll,” but it came out more like a groan than an actual word as Ford kneeled on his knee caps again and crawling up past Stanley on his full-sized bed. His headache lightly thumped, the whole world was spinning all over again. His forehead, on the other hand, felt warm and yet naked. Stanford almost selfishly wanted Stan’s dumb forehead against his all over again, they needed at least 40 years-worth of this! 

“Eugh,” he held his head at long last, so tired of feeling this dizziness as he leaned up against the headboard. Stan looked back at him, shaking his head from the other side of the bed before he shuffled backwards towards his old post. 

“I’ll tell you in the morning. But I … I _promise_ I will do all that I can for you and those kids, Ley. I owe you that much. Unfortunately, you can’t entirely keep anyone separate from the anomalies around here unless you have a memory wiping utility of some kind …” Stanford rolled his eyes considering. He immediately regretted it as everything in and around Stan’s mattress started swimming, but even that didn’t stop him from turning onto his temple. The old knucklehead almost happily sighed as he reclined back onto the iron bars of the headboard, “B-but I _will_ be right there beside your dumb glutei if anything gets especially bad.” 

“Ford, you _do_ know you can say ass in your 50s, right?” 

“Stanley Caryn Pines, you _do_ know you just kind of admitted that you love something that isn’t money?” 

“Are you askin’ for a noogie, Poindexter?” 

Stanford smiled the biggest sleepy grin. He gradually slid down the headboard not even caring about the world or the bed spinning as he ignored the texture of the pillow almost underneath his head. Ford couldn't even care about anything as he pressed the side of his face right into Stan’s thick bicep and wrapping both of his arms around his skinnier forearm. 

“Hey, hey, hey, what is this?!” he heard from a faint distance, Ford happily chuckling at Stanley’s clearly fake frustration. The old nerd’s ice-cold uneven shadow nuzzled right up against his arm. 

“Geez,” Stan elaborately shrugged his other arm towards his nightstand, clicking the clock’s alarm setting down from 6 to 10 AM. Poindexter could really use it, hell, _he_ could use it just from watching the old guy having multiple meltdowns! Stan froze. He even couldn’t help but smile a little bit. It really was easy falling back into taking care of the nerd and this time, he was going to honor every second of it. Ford better not fuck this up again, “w-what’s with everyone treating me like I’m a goddamn koala tree where cuddly koalas flock to?!” 

Stanford quietly chuckled, tightening his half-blanketed arms around the old knucklehead. His eyes slid shut. 

Stan dropped his chin on top of Ford’s skull. 

“You’re just as bad as Mabel, Poindexter,” he affectionately grumbled down into it, pulling the one side of the banket around his arm. Two ice cold hands pressed into the back of his arm in reply. Stanley couldn’t help but roll his eyes towards the fake wooden ceiling with a tiny sensation to cry over how good this felt. It all just felt so good, either something really bad was going to happen soon or one of them was going to screw things up for the other. Great Barnum, let him be wrong on this one, please! 

Stanford felt himself smile beyond even less scary closed eyelids. He happily sighed and if he had known any better, even the old knucklehead sighed at the exact same time in perfect monozygous synchronicity. 

A few more minutes or maybe just seconds went peacefully by. 

“Yeah, well, Stanley, you’re _just_ as cute as a Eucalyptus tree.” 

“Shaddap nerd.” 

But prying his eyes open was a little difficult, meeting the beginnings of Stanley’s chest hair peeping over his white tank top. Stanford couldn’t help but shake his head as Stan’s chin at the top of his head weighed him down a little. Great Newton, did he miss this! It felt so weird and yet so wonderful all at the same time! Something was bound to go wrong _and_ soon, but right now, _this_ was everything! 

“Y-you _do_ know you have your own bedroom now, right, Poindexter?” 

“Yes, b-but it’s all the way downstairs,” his one available arm flailed in the direction of the bedroom door staring into the ridges of Stanley’s white shirt slowly heaving in and out, “Too far away right now. Besides, I don’t think I can’t sleep in there anymore. I’ve just had too many nightmares and traumatic events happen in there. That’s another reason why I’ve been in the basement for the past week, Stan.” 

“B-but I do agree with you, knucklehead,” he slowly peeled his face off Stanley’s arm although he was loathed to do so, the dumbbell of that chin coming off his head as Stan looked at him directly in the eyes for a few seconds, “Mabel and Dipper _are_ obvious ly too young to be ful ly involved in all of this. You know, I kind of instant ly fell in love with those two for their weirdness and bravery despite not knowing them too well,” he heard himself chuckle a half-sleepy chuckle, “W-we can burn on how _Sherman_ ’s son managed to procreate Pines greatness some other time.” 

“Heh, you’re on, Si-ah-Poindexter.” 

“Thank you, Stanley,” Stanford murmured even softer, realizing that little save. 

He felt even weaker against resisting sleep and if he knew any better, Stan was not too far away either. Stan’s eyelids started drooping even heavier than Droopy Dog’s before they tried shooting wide open all over again, a big dumb grin plastered on that wonderfully big dumb face. 

Stanley pressed his chin back on top of Ford’s head, feeling the calmest (and maybe just a _tiny_ bit sleepy, just a tad, real ly !) he had been since initial ly waking up earlier tonight. They didn't talk about the terms for the rest of summer, but Stan was fine with that for now. As long as most of the air was cleared, maybe he could proud ly walk away from Gravity Falls and the shack. But the better question was if Ford would follow him _this_ time. Moving or talking at the exact same time was one thing, but as of right now, reading one another’s minds still might be a little too soon. 

“You know, ah, we-we’re not telling the kids about tonight, are we?” 

Stanford sleepily chuckled as he dropped his face against Stanley’s arm all over again. 

“Well, if they have anything of the Pines twins’ powers, they’ll figure it out.” 

A few quiet moments went peacefully by. 

Another couple of seconds came and went, Ford surprisingly not even dead asleep yet. 

“Heh, five bucks says Mabel figures it out first,” Stan chuckled from behind his closed eyes. 

“You’re on, knucklehead,” Stanford hugged his arms around that muscular arm even tighter, “Is 1982 dollars still worth the same?” 

“Eh, we’ll figure it out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re not grinning AND crying or doing BOTH at any point during this, I did NOT do this right!!
> 
> *
> 
> I quietly named the elephant on Stanley’s chest Egbert, because alliterative animal names are the best animal names, damn it! 
> 
> *
> 
> If anyone wants to make any visual art off of the assorted metaphors in this, please, go ahead! I personally dream of the Stanford being a blanket owl one to the depths of my nocturnal being.
> 
> +
> 
> Rejected Tags: Tag: Stan kind of likes Lord of the Rings books!, Ford trying to be a better older brother, As the first sibling to go to college Ford speaks to me, Stan still having G.I. Joe inspired dreams, Can you blame Ford for having Daddy issues?, Stanford essentially pulls a Kronk, Repairing trauma is a bit like watching New Doctor Who you have to start wherever then go back to the start then charge all the way through, Stan finally gets called out for wearing his brother’s glasses, Stanford’s needing to wear sweaters in the summer is Stanley’s fault!, Stanford “Happy-Sleepy Sushi Roll” Pines


End file.
